


A song just for you

by vanishing_apples



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Lucilius dies but what's new, M/M, Origin Story, non-con elements in chapter 10 so tread with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:31:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_apples/pseuds/vanishing_apples
Summary: The life and times of a monster and the fool who never stopped loving him.





	1. Prelude

There is no telling when his dormancy ends and consciousness begins. Tepid darkness clings to his skin, eyes opened as if closed. Then comes the awareness of being enveloped in liquid. 

Soothing… This state of non-life which comforts as it suffocates. He feels belonged here. But creeping up the edges of fledging sentience is also a compulsion to _break free_ , shed this amniotic sac from his body before it drowns him. 

Other senses blink to life in succession. His skin can feel better now - the sensation of unfamiliar fingers curled around his wrist, of suddenly being pulled up and nearly shoved into vertigo. The first heaving gulps of air presses liquid out of his lungs. Eyes open, for a second time, to _true_ consciousness.

There he is. There they are: where boundless sky and water meet in a dance of light and life. The lone creature before him smiles warmly, pristine feathers streaming from its back in brilliant cascades. Its eyes are a piercing blue, as if carved out of the cloud-marbled slab of sky above their heads. 

“Welcome! I’m so happy to finally meet you, my lovely other half.” - It sings in jubilation.


	2. Genesis

Light refracts, water reflects, he has a face, and that face is the spitting image of his host’s. All that, he learns from a glimpse into the dark waters from whence he came. That his name is Lucilius , however, he simply knows. He immediately wonders why that is the case.

“I am called Lucio. You truly are as beautiful as He says.” 

The unknown life-form before him speaks. 

“Why do you know your name? Why do I know mine?” - He responds with questions, slightly startled to hear the same voice he just heard spilling from his own lips. - “And why did you compliment my appearance when we look the same?”

Lucio’s deep blue eyes widen, then joyous laughter comes bubbling out of his chest. Lucilius is on the verge of asking what he finds so amusing, but is distracted by the waves of orange and purple that ripple through Lucio’s brilliant white feathers, radiating from his quivering body. 

“As expected of my other half, your first words are inquiries!” - Lucio chirps, wings fluttering as admiration glitters in his eyes. - “We know because we _are_. And we are born beautiful, as per Master’s wish…”

 _But why?_ The question keeps gnawing at his mind, unrelenting. Throbbing. Irritating. Like scraped skin on its way to inflammation. He doesn’t understand this, but he wants to. He _needs_ to. A compulsion to _know_ , one akin to ravenous hunger, rakes at the walls of his skull rather than his stomach. 

Lucilius feels cursed.

The sky bursts with a blinding light, thunderous roars erupting from its bright white belly. Startled, Lucilius jolts and topples over the edge, back into the waters. 

Fear promptly seizes him by the throat. The liquid - previously a calming cradle - now crushing air out of him, crushing out the life that has barely entered his body. He flails, limbs kicking at the cold watery shackles until his vision is framed by glowing feathers. 

_He has wings, too_. Their weight pulls him faster downward. He is going to die when he has yet to even begun living. Inky dread stains the edges of his vision, wraps him entirely in a package of darkness headed for the netherworld.

A sharp yank of his arm returns him to the realm of the living. The light sears his retinae, and Lucilius makes haste in crawling into the refuge of Lucio’s shadow once his coughing fits have subsided.

“Are you alright!?” - His ‘other-half’ sounds panicked.

 _A redundant question._ Can he not see how Lucilius still struggles to breathe? That every exhale comes out laboured and spraying liquid? He is _drenched_ and shaking, gripped by fear and cold anger as the taste of death lingers on his tongue. 

“Shhh... You’re safe now. You’re safe… I won’t let any harm come your way.”

The colours of dawn fold over his body and gently pulsate. Their foreheads touch, the simply contact vacuuming away the thick smog of apprehension clouding his mind. The effect proves instant: tension slackens its grip on Lucilius as he reclines against the down-like barrier made of Lucio’s wings, suddenly so relaxed he is on the verge of sleep. 

An inexplicable warmth, a longing, tugs at his heart.

“Master only wanted to greet us, but such sudden stimulation of the senses seems to have overwhelmed you…” - Lucio’s gaze lowers in apology, feathers unfurling around them.

“That was our Master?”

“Yes! He is very pleased with you having finally emerged. It seems our dwelling is now ready for habitation. Master urged us to make our way there.”

“...How?” 

Water surrounds their tiny island (more like a patch of rocky dry land) on all sides, stretching as far as their eyes can see. Lucilius can’t imagine any sort of shelter being in their vicinity.

“We fly, of course!” 

Lucio answers matter-of-factly, his wings flapping up a small spray of water in their enthusiasm. But they droop the instance his eyes fall on Lucilius’ wings - soaked and lifelessly dull, not a thread of light woven into their feathers like Lucio’s. 

“Oh… My apologies. But don’t you worry, I’ll have us there in a flash!”

Lucilius feels arms circling his back and looping under his knees, but is too tired from the underwater struggle (and possibly the tranquilising power of Lucio’s touch) for protests. Wings folded neatly against his back, Lucilius allows himself to be lifted into the air. He leans into Lucio’s chest and lets a wave of unrivaled calm wash over him, seep into his bones. Lucio’s arms do indeed feel like the safest of havens. Not even the growing distance between them and the watery abyss below could harm him now. 

Lucilius’ inquisitive mind wonders if, like his name, this feeling is also predetermined by his design.

But with the return of safety comes the persistent ‘hunger’ he felt earlier. What did Lucio mean by ‘other-halves’? Why were they created? Their creator sounded like thunder, but what does He _look_ like? What is their purpose and why does Lucio coddle him so?

He must have subconsciously vocalised some of those questions, as Lucio looks down at him with a smile. One overflowing with such warmth and adoration, Lucilius feels smothered.

“We were made to love. And more than anything, I love you.”


	3. Creation and preservation

“How did you come into this world?”

Lucilius asks, sitting still to allow Lucio to wring water out of his feathers, comb each back into place with utmost care. The small waterfall curtaining the cave’s entrance rumbles at their backs, filling their home with a cool mist. 

“I heard our Master’s voice rousing me awake. And all of a sudden I was there - among the clouds.”

Lucio’s voice is airy light, dreamy as he watches Lucilius’ feathers regain their dusk-coloured shimmer between his fingers. Patches of luminescent fungi on the cave’s ceiling cast over them a mystical glow.

“...You heard his _voice_.” 

Lucilius is skeptical. 

His eyes tirelessly scan their surrounding, intaking information while he remains engaged in conversation. The walls are uncannily smooth, as if this cavity was neatly chiseled out of a mountainside. No sharp protuberances, ridges, or a single loose rock lay in sight. No danger of being stabbed or crushed.

“Yes. It was very gentle, like a song. He immediately gave me instructions to go meet you - who was to emerge from below.”

All _he_ heard was thunder, deafening enough it might as well have struck right above their heads. 

“Just as He said, there you were! I was already overwhelmed by the beauty of this empty, heavenly world, but you… You surpassed them all. My breath was taken away when I saw you in the water, I almost forgot to pull you up! And when you opened your eyes… No words could measure the depth contained within these indigo jewels. Not even the womb of your genesis - the ocean itself - could compare- Ouch!?”

“I needed a simple affirmative.” - Lucilius twirls Lucio’s plucked feather between his fingers. 

“Ah… I see. My apologies.”

He only intended to halt the other’s needless ramblings for further questioning, but faced with a thoroughly dejected Lucio, the motivation all but vanishes. 

Something ugly stirs Lucilius’ his chest. _Guilt?..._ It doesn’t matter, he simply wants the emotion smothered before it forces him to vomit out anything like apology. His pride should not take injury from something so inconsequential.

Lucilius clutches at the dirt, the gears in his head spinning wildly in search of a solution. He wants Lucio to stop _making that face,_ stop dragging this unwanted empathetic response out of him, go back to that stupidly blinding smile if he has to. 

As if in response to that wish, violet light spills from his clenched palms, spider-webbing across the ground in luminous threads. Wherever they touch spring forth creeping vines that weave together to blanket the black dirt. All manners of tiny flowers bloom profusely in their wake, tightly knit in a colourful tapestry.

“Amazing! So this is your gift...” - Lucio can barely contain his amazement. Just as Lucilius wanted, all signs of gloom on his features have been replaced by unfiltered awe.

“I… I can’t hold…” _Hold what?_ He doesn’t know how, but Lucius can feel life dripping out of his grip as the carpet of flowers begin to decay. He panics. - “Lucio!”

Golden light overlaps with violet when Lucio’s palm stacks on top of his own. The honeyed, earthy glow of their combined auras rejuvenates the wilting blossoms. Even as it dims, they thrive with vigour. If Lucilius’ photographic memory is to be believed, the flowers now seem even more vibrant than before. 

“Your gift is to create, and mine is to preserve. Together, we breathe life over these blessed lands.”

And so are their tasks assigned by Master, Lucio says. 

The future remains riddled with uncertainty - something Lucilius feels naturally inclined to abhor. But at the very least this power, this purpose, seem to be constants, as is Lucio’s presence. At the very least, they provide him with security.

“I can hardly wait! We will make this world a prosperous, magnificent haven.” - Lucio’s words are laced with laughter, muffled when his nose is affectionately buried into his partner’s hair. 

“Hmm…” - Lucilius leans into the soothing touch.

\---

It seems his inquisitive mind is also a gift to serve the end of populating this world. Lucilius makes, observes, records and _learns_ at breakneck speed to satisfy his primal hunger for knowledge. Some landscapes promote certain types of plant life while prohibiting others; the presence of such vegetation would best facilitate so and so creatures; this degree of sunlight would be most suitable for trees of that heights...

He revels in the activity, pouring his heart and soul into designing the perfect ecosystems where different life forms cohabit in perfect equilibrium. Creation is at his fingertips, he needs only imagine. Lucio, meanwhile, is always there, by his side. Always supportive and willing to provide the stabilisation and preservation his creations require to exist. In no time, they have really turned the once desolate lands of only light, earth and water into thriving sanctuaries. 

Lucilius would even admit to being happy, albeit never out loud. So long as he keeps learning and creating, the beast within him will spare him from torture as it remain sated. Creating makes his existence feel worthwhile, makes him feel needed and at times, even powerful. Whatever lives is only limited by his own imagination. Well, his, and occasionally Lucio’s whimsical fancies, that is.

“Hey... Hey, Lucilius?”

Lucio’s whispering cuts short Lucilius’ concentration as pink and orange-hued feathers brushes the edges of his vision. If by whispering he intended not to disturb him, Lucio has utterly failed. 

Lucilius sighs, gazing up to meet curious, bright blue eyes. Honestly, both they and his feathers sparkle too damn much. Lucio is just too bright for his own good.

“What?”

“Is this the design for… you know…” - For some reason, he is still whispering, like a child about to relay some forbidden secret. Lucilius’ eyebrows knit together.

“No, I don’t know. Unless you decide to tell me.”

“Oh, excuse me. Might this be the design for the wind rabbit I proposed?”

“Hmm, what do you think?” - Lucilius’ smirk is completely lost on Lucio, but he might as well seize the opportunity to tease his partner a little, if only to punish him for having broken his concentration. - “Have a closer look?”

To Lucilius’ amusement, Lucio actually gets down on his knees and begins to earnestly scrutinise what he has scrawled on the ground. He evidently struggles, not only with figuring out the drawing’s content but also preventing his great wings from wiping away any details by accident.

“It… is?” - Lucio sounds rather unsure of himself.

“Good job. So it is.”

If smiles could actually blind, Lucio’s would easily impair Lucilius’ vision.

“So… You like the idea after all!?”

“No.”

“Oh…”

“Having the long ears of these rabbit-like beasts be _wings_ would be a terrible handicap, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

Lucilius massages the bridge of his nose.

“Imagine having your… _ear-feathers_...” - He groans. - “...constantly subjected to air currents, that would defeat the whole purpose of auditory input.”

Lucio cocks his head to the side, quizzical ad he is oblivious to the other’s wings ruffling up in frustration.

 _Patience. And simpler language._ Lucilius reminds himself.

“...Imagine the wind blowing into your ears at all times. Would that not render you permanently disoriented and utterly incapable of hearing anything?”

Lucio makes a small, elongated noise of understanding, satisfied with the explanation.

“I see now! But Lucilius, aren’t you making it anyway?”

“Obviously, I’ve already made the appropriate adjustments.”

Lucilius extends a hand to his partner, who immediately takes hold of it with fervour. Honeyed radiance pours from between their clasped hands, pooling into a luminous mass on the ground. It gradually solidifies, hardening at the edges until its outlines mirror that of the design Lucilius sketched into the dirt. When the light dims, what is left behind are a pair of the wind rabbits of Lucio’s dreams. The creatures open their eyes, pink and black noses twitching with curiosity at their creators before breaking into a sprint, their feathered ears flap into flight after some distance.

“They’re stunning…! But how?” - Lucio gasps in wonder.

“I simply removed the function of ears from those digits entirely.”

“...I’m assuming they can still hear?”

“That you’ll know upon close examination…” - Lucilius nods, impressed by his own success. - “That is, if you manage to catch one to examine at all.”

“Got it! Wait for me, bunnies!”

Lucio’s eyes burn with determination as he turns oh his heel, about to take off after the rabbits. A sudden, mindless compulsion guides Lucilius’ hand to one of his wings just in time, stopping him short of flying away.

“Not so fast, idiot.”

After all that work, does he not at least deserve some expression of gratitude?

“Ah, that’s right. Pardon my impertinence.” 

Lucio seizes Lucilius by the shoulder, at which point the latter only realises how stupidly strong he is. Their mouths clumsily collide with much force, almost cutting Lucilius’ lips against his own teeth. The sudden and overwhelming burst of warmth leaves him thoroughly dazed. 

“You’re wonderful, amazing! As are all of your gifts to this world. Thank you, my other half!”

Another playful peck meets his forehead. Lucilius has barely registered what just ensued when Lucio’s wings carry him out of sight, shrinking into the distance like two fluttering shards of dawn. The cool wind brushing his skin from Lucio’s takeoff only makes the heat still clinging to his lips and forehead more apparent. 

To Lucilius’ horror, it spreads. To his entire face, fills up his chest and blooms across his skin in a surge which he is utterly powerless to stop.


	4. Seeds of unrest

Thunder booms overhead, its deafening rumble unobstructed by even their caves’ thick granite ceiling. The deluge’s angry crashing has long melted into that of the waterfall, leaving them surrounded by nature’s vocal fury on all sides. The sky is a deep indigo canvas mostly patched over by storm clouds; the occasional flash of lightning illuminate their ragged edges.

Quite beautiful, Lucio would say, admiring how the colour mirrors that of Lucilius’ deep blue eyes when a rare shard manages to enter his vision through the narrow frame of their cave’s entrance. Though in all fairness he has never deemed anything belonging to this world unsightly. After all, everything is a piece of their Master’s grand, beauteous puzzle.

Entranced, Lucio is almost tempted to dash outside and let his wings soak up the rain. Fortunately, not quite tempted enough to go and abandon his clearly tense partner.

“Lucilius? Are you quite alright?”

Lucilius is balled up in a corner of their shared bed, whose frame Lucio himself constructed out of fragrant wood while the mattress was woven out of hay and aromatic grasses. The bioluminescence of the ceiling mushrooms barely suffices as reading light, but that doesn’t stop him from squinting at the tall slab of stacked documents before him, trying _very hard_ to concentrate on their contents. So hard, in fact, he misses Lucio’s voice amidst the rumbling storm.

“Lucilius!” - Lucio tries again, making sure his call rises above the white noise this time but still yields no response. 

It’s now evident that more than noise is keeping Lucilius locked up in his own mind.

“Lucilius…” 

Lucilius finally snaps out of it when strong arms loop around his waist and his name is whispered directly into his ears, laced in a warm breath. It’s almost obnoxious, the way his body automatically reclines into that embrace even before his mind could recognise the desire to do so.

“What? I’m working.”

“Please don’t. You are clearly stressed, I can feel it.”

Lucio means it literally. They are, to a degree, empathetically connected as two halves of a whole.

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m busy. Don’t you have a conversation to attend to?”

The sky growls with more thunder, sending tremors through the mountainside as they do Lucilius’ small frame. The fear is palpable to Lucio where their skins make contact, despite his partner’s efforts to keep his facial expression rigid.

“...Lucilius. This is just a normal storm, not our Master.”

“Hah…”

It’s all the same to him: angry, loud, and _frightening_. Both excessive forces outside of his control - menacing to safety and the senses. What part of it sounds like words, let alone “ _a song_ ” to Lucio, he can’t possibly comprehend.

And he hates himself for it. Lucilius loathes unresolvable lack of understanding. Was he made defective in some way? Why can’t he perceive what Lucio so easily does?

“...You’re hurt.”

“I’m not, don’t be stupid.”

“You are! It’s faint for me, but it’s like a splinter embedded in your heart... What can I do to make it better?”

Lucio nuzzles the side of Lucilius’ neck, desperate. Frustrated with himself that he can only provide his beloved with physical comfort. Lucilius is silent as he allows himself to be drawn further into Lucio’s warmth. The other’s silky hair and hot breath tickling his collarbone isn’t a sensation that he hates, but it does little in alleviating the weight in his chest.

“...Tell me, then. Why can I never hear our creator’s words?”

He dreads the answer, wholeheartedly expecting Lucio’s hesitance in telling him that he is, indeed, gravely flawed. That he is excluded from a basic privilege Lucio enjoys for being unworthy, unloved, the inferior one of the pair. But Lucilius simply must _know_ , if only because his primal instinct compels him to know. 

“It's an unfortunate side effect of your gifts, my dear.” - A gentle, if not slightly uneasy smile blooms across Lucio’s lips. - “You were made to create, to endlessly pursue and generate new knowledge. The essence of learning - rational questioning - leaves you less receptive to what is better perceived with unconditional faith.”

“...Are you saying that I can only hear and see him if I already believe in his existence?”

“Yes. But Lucilius, you don’t really believe, do you?”

He _can’t_. His mind simply refuses to permit the backward logic of a conclusion preceding evidence. How can Lucilius believe in something, or someone, he can neither see nor hear?

Great, he was not only born cursed but also _intentionally_ made defective. The back of his throat tastes acid.

“Please don’t despair so. We were simply created for different purposes! There are countless things you are capable of that I am not. Just leave communication with Master to me.” 

Lucio pushes their bodies even closer together, then turns Lucilius over so they come face to face. Deep navy as if veiled by a lattice of shadows, his partner’s eyes are truly the most exquisite of gems, their depth capable of pulling in his very soul. 

“I understand that faith does not come easily to you. But please, take my word for it this once - that to me, every single part of you is more precious than anything. These eyes...”

A butterfly kiss lands on Lucilius’ eyelid, draped over an iris that will never contain the vibrance of Lucio’s sky blue ones.

“This skin…”

Lips travel to his neck, sucking a deep red brand into ivory skin. Pale, sickly and lackluster compared to the sun-kissed liveliness of Lucio’s.

“These arms, hands, fingers…”

...Are too slim, fragile, _inadequate. Shameful_ next to Lucio’s chiseled, refined muscles. What part of them deserves such reverence from him?

Lucilius is too occupied with fighting the cloying sweetness welling up his throat to notice his robe slipping from his shoulders, making way for Lucio’s trail of kisses. His heart feels crushed in his own rib cage when their eyes meet, smothered by the torrent of affection that comes spilling out of brilliant blue confines.

“I don’t lie, Lucilius. You can feel my sincerity for yourself. So trust me when I say that you are the most beautiful, most sublime creature I have and forever will lay my eyes upon.”

 _Is that because you were designed with impaired vision?_

Should loving and being loved be this agonising? Why does Lucio’s touch ignite passion under his skin while searing him painfully so? 

A moan almost tumbles from Lucilius’ lips when it is blocked by Lucio’s smouldering ones, protests disintegrating in his throat as their body heat meld together. Before long, they have laid sprawled over Lucilius’ scattered documents. Roaming hands slip under fabric, brush over well-explored terrains to pull more cries out of Lucilius’ chest. Lucio can play him like a harp. 

He has always been able to. Intercourse between them comes naturally, mess-free and unbound by the hassle of trial-and-error. Their bodies and instincts were simply made compatible from the start, their union sanctified by the highest authority - Lucio often says. 

Lucilius has never stopped wondering if the bliss coursing through his veins in reaction to this, how he never makes any attempt of resistance, are all predetermined as well. 

Their cries bounce off the granite walls in fragmented echoes, drowning out even the storm and waterfall’s incessant roars. Pleasure leaves Lucilius’ mind a blank canvas. Lucio is truly capable of protecting him from anything, even his own self-doubt and predatory thoughts. 

Lightning rips apart the veil of rain in a blinding white flash somewhere near the cave’s entrance, bringing with it quaking thunder. Lucilius barely registers his own arms encircling Lucio’s neck. Relief washes over him all too quickly when the hug is reciprocated, familiar hands rubbing soothing circles into his bare back.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” - Lucio coos into Lucilius’ hair. - “I love you.”

That declaration of love has the curious effect of diminishing some of the comfort for Lucilius. 

“...But why?” - Of course, even at a time like this, he won’t stop asking unnecessary questions.

“I simply do. As you love me.”

And it was, indeed, the most unnecessary question of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going through some difficult things again so updates might be slow, but I’ll try to keep them no later than the rate of once per week.


	5. Ravine

They get into the habit of kissing good morning and good night. Lucio - the early riser - is always eager to brush off with his lips the last grains of grogginess from his partner’s eyes when dawn breaks. Lucilius - the night owl - would steal a peck to Lucio’s jaw once he is certain the latter is sound asleep, snoring into his hair with one arm looped around his waist. 

Centuries shave away the rugged edges of some rocks at the foot of their cliff, drape velvety moss over others, pack Lucilius’ desk and drawers to overflowing with design plans, records and an ever growing encyclopedia. Their shelves have already been monopolised by the countless trinkets Lucio continues to scavenge through the years - peculiarly shaped stones, polished pebbles, sea glass, dried flowers in jars, unrecognisable masses of clay that were once handicrafts projects he roped Lucilius into participating,... 

Time leaves its stretched footprints on the landscape as it does their home. And yet neither of them has once ventured the thought of beginning and ending their day without the other’s face as the first and last thing they see. 

“Good morning, love.” 

Lucilius releases a grumpy groan into his pillow, already faced down again within the mere ten minutes of Lucio’s absence. He hisses when the latter flips him over for a kiss, unknowingly allowing honeyed drops of sun to creep under his eyelids. 

“...Nngg...”

“Oh, right. Sorry for that.”

Familiar rustling resounds around Lucilius as Lucio tries to curtain him from the glare of sunlight with his great wings. 

It feels nice. Too nice. Lucio’s shine is soothing even as it bleaches away the darkness Lucilius craves, not to mention the exquisite softness of his down feathers…

He could just fall back asleep like this.

“Ah! Please don’t! You’ll sleep the day away at this rate!”

Lucio panics. It’s been centuries and he has yet to find a solution to Lucilius’ stubborn streaks. He could pull his partner out of bed, which would risk hurting him with his excessive strength and that is the last thing he wants happening.

Lean arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back into bed as Lucio stands dumbstruck.

“What if I do, anyway?”

“That’s…”

That’s _right_. What if he does? Lucio has simply followed the routine because it feels natural to him, as is his approach to most things. What exactly is the harm in letting Lucilius laze around as he pleases?

“W-well! You won’t be able to see my surprise for you. So you’d better get up now.”

 _Hah! Checkmate._ Prodding at his partner’s insatiable curiosity is bound to work like a charm. Lucio huffs, quite proud of himself for reaching the perfect solution.

“You scavenge for weeds almost every morning. It’s hardly a surprise anymore, idiot.”

Lucio’s jaw hangs open at his complete loss for words. A stifled chuckle from Lucilius tickles his stomach.

“They’re flowers, not weeds! Especially since these don’t grow on the ground.”

“There is such a thing as seagrass-”

“Just get up, please.”

Lucilius can’t refuse that pleading voice, not when it so forcefully tugs at his heartstrings. 

The moment his face begrudgingly pulls away from the warmth of Lucio’s belly, splashes of pink and white fill his vision. A large bouquet is practically shoved under Lucilius’ nose.

“Lotuses.”

“Yes. I spotted some blooming in the small pond on the path of our evening walks. Aren’t they lovely?”

Lucio’s wings flap up a miniature indoor storm in his excitement retelling the accounts of his discovery. Obnoxiously, they make Lucilius’ hair whip at his own face, but also stirs into being a dancing vortex of butterflies in his stomach. The deed should be frivolous, even meaningless. Flowers Lucio brings into their home effectively have their natural lives cut short. Yet they make heat bloom across his skin without fail every single time.

“They remind me of you - breathtakingly ethereal in their beauty as they emerge from the murky water.” - Lucio sighs dreamily.

“...Well, they smell of mud and so do you.”

Lucilius can’t afford words of gratitude, knowing full well they would only make Lucio considerably more clingy (and strangle-y) than he is willing to deal with. A topical diversion in the form of a half-lie is only justified.

“I do!? That can’t be!”

“Yes, you do. Your lower set of wings are caked in mud, dimwit.”

“Oh no… You’re right.”

He could spend the rest of the day watching Lucio twirl in circles trying to grab his muddied wings like a pup chasing its own tail, but Lucilius isn’t so heartless. Maybe.

“Go stand under the waterfall, I’ll rinse them out.” - Lucilius mumbles as he shakes out the wilted content of their vase and puts in the fresh lotuses.

“You’re the best!” - Lucio chimes before practically rushing to get under the water, lets cool liquid weaves in between his feathers and loosen up the dried mud.

Getting his wings soaked feels good, but nothing could compare to Lucilius’ fingers digging into them and combing through the matted down. Little sparks seem to flow from his beloved’s fingertips to travel up and down his back in contented shivers. 

Even Lucilius feels at peace enough that the tone-deaf little tune Lucio has started to hum almost makes tonal sense to him. Much like fabric, the more subtle patches of colour on Lucio’s white wings become dramatically saturated, bursting with vibrance as the finer fibres lie flat against his skin from the moisture. They’re simply gorgeous, perfect in every way. Products of impeccable design and craftsmanship... 

Lucilius has to divert his gaze and work blindly before his thoughts begin to wander into darker recesses of his mind. 

The ‘door’ to their home - the waterfall - flows into a great, emerald green basin at the foot of the near vertical cliff. Larger rocks directly situated under the stream have been corroded by the rushing water into bizarre formations, bearing some resemblance to the statues of worship constructed by the budding civilisations inhabiting some islands that Lucilius often observes. Water in the near circular basin then resumes its flow, albeit in a much more languid pace compared to the vertical drop, in a little ravine that snakes under drooping canopies, great clusters of reeds and cattails and other manners of flourishing vegetation. Far, far into the distance it goes, with the increasingly dense forest lining both banks and the ever formidable cliffs running parallel, watching over its course.

They are surrounded on all sides, just like the ravine. The sky is abruptly sliced off mid air by the treeline, leaving it a silken, two-dimensional stretch of blue that hangs overhead like fabric. Lucilius has a hunch of the purpose of such claustrophobic topography. Perhaps it is to keep something out of sight and potential prolonged mulling over the object. Away from _his_ curious eyes and inquisitive mind. It may very well just be his mind playing tricks on him for straining his eyes, but if he doesn’t blink for long enough, Lucilius could swear he sees a speck of red bleeding over the treetops…

A light spray and too-bright glow of orange cause him to recoil as they cut short his rumination - Lucio idiotically shaking water out of his almost clean wings directly in Lucilius’ face.

“What-”

“Lucilius~! I can’t reach that spot at all. Help me please?”

A drenched wing is held over his head, feathers dripping water into his eyes. A glum cloud of rage cast its shadow over Lucilius as his expression darkens.

“How about a thorough wash!?” 

His last syllable marks a decisive shove at Lucio’s back, fueled by Lucilius’ fury and the intention of sending him into the basin. A yelp, then a vice-like grip seizes the latter’s wrist. The fall isn’t long enough for either of them to remember how to fly.

Lucilius almost passes out on impact if not for Lucio’s arms and wings folding around him in a protective cocoon. His own sets lay unceremoniously splayed across the water, blues and violets weakly pulsing through their lengths. 

“...Die...alone… and on your own terms you block-headed basta-!!”

Lips locking with Lucilius’ own deny all enraged profanities utterance. Still seeking leverage, his arms find themselves around Lucio’s neck but unwittingly serve to deepen the kiss; jaws parting to make way for much needed breaths only manages to grant Lucio’s tongue entry. Lucilius’ mind is all but blank when they part.

“If possible, I’d prefer that we perish together.” - Lucio’s smile is cryptic.


	6. Home is where you are

One day, Lucio comes back from another needlessly loud conversation with their creator with a gift and a silent fire burning in his eyes. 

“What are those for?” - Lucilius asks from under the cover where he has been taking refuge from the ‘thunderstorm’, captivated by the three impressive sabers placed between them.

“I have been assigned a new task! There are the tools Master has bestowed upon me to aid that effort.” - Lucio could barely contain his excitement.

Lucilius’ blood runs cold.

_He said **I** , not **we**. I have no part in this._

“I see. And what would this task be?” - Keeping his voice from trembling is a mighty struggle.

“...It’s…” 

Lucio fumbles for words, which is not at all atypical of him, but the reason behind this particular instance is radically different from his usual quest for flowery poetics. 

“I am to go subdue disturbances brewing at the bottom of the sky. It seems there is a breeding ground for malevolent beings which threaten the peace of our realm.” 

Lucilius has known this day would come. Creation, can only maintain insofar as equilibrium is not reached. Preservation is destined to take over once progress plateaus. _He_ is nearing obsolescence. 

Perhaps the most unsavoury part of this is the fact that all efforts to mask his inner turmoil are ineffective. Lucio may not be able to read his mind, but he can certainly _feel_ Lucilius’ guts twisting in on themselves. 

“Please, don’t despair so! It’s not as though we will be apart for the greater bulk of time… I will be gone before day breaks and return at sun down.”

Lucilius is thankful that their connection is merely empathetic and not telepathic. Lucio’s diagnosis has completely missed the mark, but whatever little distance between them, mental or physical, he heartily welcomes. 

He needs space to breathe; any amount at all is precious.

“I will be fine. Don’t sabotage your new job, or your joy, by needlessly fussing over me.”

“But Lucilius…”

“Please, I can bloody _smell_ how happy you are.” - Lucilius chuckles somewhat bitterly. - “Don’t feel guilty for reveling in it. And don’t you dare disappoint me for doing something half-heartedly either.”

Lucio is close to tears when he pulls Lucilius out of his fortress of bedding into his arms.

“I promise. And it shall be like we are never apart.” 

Lucilius counts on the first promise but not so eagerly does the second.

\---

In Lucio’s defense, he really does try his best to keep Lucilius company in whatever way he can.

The morning bouquets may not be pressed directly under his nose anymore, but Lucilius still wakes up to their presence without fail. The first few days, he would find fresh bundles of flowers artfully arranged in a vase on his work desk, which Lucio somehow finds the time to tidy up for him. His partner gets creative the following days: flower petals arranged on the ground to spell out some sappy, hackneyed declarations of love, garlands, tapestries and even arches of flowers that frame their cave’s entrance. 

But the less deliberate traces of Lucio’s presence ironically provide him with more comfort. They keep him sane through the first months of their new routine, take the sharp, bitter edge off the miserable drudgery that is their passing. 

Lucilius spends such days perpetually wrapped in any article of textile - blankets, towels, clothing - still infused with his partner’s scent; occupying the spaces Lucio once frequented; scrutinising surfaces for traces of his fingerprints and crying himself in and out of sleep.

He never even knew he could cry. Not once did he ever shed tears over the multitude of perceived dangers he’s encountered. But this scenario is a far cry from the nebulous menaces mostly constructed by his paranoia. It is his worst nightmare realised. It _hurts_ , like having one half of himself literally torn away. A chilling void has opened up in his chest that he desperately tries to fill with sorry semblances of Lucio’s warmth.

Worse yet, Lucilius soon learns these circumstances not only hurt but also cripple him. 

“Stay. together. You stupid, worthless piece of… Ugh!!”

He kicks the grotesque, weakly pulsing lump of flesh in front of him. It disintegrates immediately upon contact, breaks into pieces and rots back into the earth along with its brothers and sisters. Sinking to his knees, Lucilius’ angry fists beat at the ground until his pinkies numb from the pain.

It’s useless. Designs don’t matter. His power doesn’t matter. Nothing would maintain the form he designates it without Preservation’s aid. 

His individual existence is meaningless, purposeless. He can’t even _function_ with Lucio out of sight.

“So I’m all but useless scrap now. Why don’t you just destroy me, then!? Put me out of this misery!?”

Blood red twilight sneers at Lucilius’ anguish as his screams reverberated off its colourless ceiling, shattering into lonesome echoes. 

He is all alone. Alone, with only the greedy monster which preys on intellect within him for company. Void of Lucio’s tranquilising presence, it stirs, chafing his insides as it rises. Realising Lucilius has lost his ability to give it what it wants, its fangs are bared...

His wings find home on the lavender sky, torn off strips of a dusk-dyed cloud. They lift him up higher and higher in pursuit of the taste of thinning air and the day’s last sunbeams’ retreating tails. 

Lucilius soon stands perched on the tallest height his wings could take him. Darkening waters roll far into the distance. He could only hear but not see it rhythmically lapping at the cliff’s rocky foot. 

He has seen many creatures perish tumbling off lesser heights. He can easily replicate the experience, try to vanquish the ravenous monster within and put an end to his own suffering. Manually shut off these pesky sensories, obliterate all anxieties, emotions, longing,... 

Undo this _curse_ that has plagued him since antiquity.

It is only appropriate that, being born from the sea, he should return to its embrace. He was free then, and he would find freedom in the same void of nonexistence now.

“Lucilius… Lucilius!” 

Dawn overtakes the dimming landscape too suddenly. Lucilius winces at the splash of golden light over his unprepared pupils.

“...What are you doing here?” 

“You weren’t home when I came back, so I headed out looking. What are _you_ doing here?”

Ah… He could laugh. _He_ was supposed to be the hysterical one. Does Lucio think it his business to outdo him even in wretchedness? That dumb face of his, well-practiced for the business of sporting the most irritating of smiles, wears distress astonishingly poorly.

“Am I not allowed some fresh air? Or is it now _my_ task to wait on your return without fail?”

Lucio is quiet. Lucilius could see the paper-thin edge of anger lining his despondence. Tension simmers between them, threatening to boil over.

“...Let’s go home.” - Lucio finally speaks up.

“Fine.” 

Lucilius slaps away the hands brought to his waist and attempting to hoist him up by habit. 

It doesn’t make sense. He should be overjoyed to be reunited with Lucio, fly into his welcoming arms and let the light of his wings sweep away all anxieties as they often do. But an inexplicable resentment coats any morsel of joy in acrimony.

Lucio is evidently shocked. Then hurt blooms across his features. Then a quiet determination.

“What… Let. go of me! I have my own wings!!”

“I insist. You are in no shape for any more needless exertion.”

Lucilius struggles in vain. Lucio’s hold on him is bruising, desperate. Inescapable. Eerie comfort creeps over him as it has many times before, subdues his wounded pride and drags him into a forceful state of calm. By predetermination not of his own will, Lucilius’ pain is numbed in but a few of their synchronised heartbeats. Paradoxically, the crushing weight of their combined desperation grows all the more excruciating: his for an escape, Lucio’s for his... _their_ , incarceration. 

“...Please, I beg of you, never do this again. Don’t attempt to destroy what our Master crafted with love... ”

Falling off that cliff would probably have been softer a blow.


	7. Make me forget

“...cio…Lucio.”

“What is it, love?”

“I have designed a new species. I need your assistance for its creation.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Just one second, though. I’m finishing up this frame for our- ow! Ow, ow... Alright! Please stop plucking my feathers!”

“Hmph.”

“...May I see the design, then?”

“Not necessary. Just place your hand in the basin, on top of mine.”

“Okay.”

…

“Hold it tightly if you want a closer look before it slips away.”

“This...tightly? Ack!! What the-!”

“Pfffft... Hah! Hahaha!”

“What on earth is this!?”

“It’s called a squid. Beautiful creature, isn’t it?”

“It just assaulted me! My feathers are stained...”

“Not just your feathers, soot-face.”

“Lucilius!”

“What? I find it a fitting look for table scrap scavengers.”

“What are you… Wait, this is because I ate the last strawberries of the season?”

“Assume what you will, blockhead.”

“Lucilius...I already apologised countless times! I’ll save you the next season’s first yield of apples so there’s no need to resort to such petty… Eek!”

“Take that, globber.”

“Aaaaahh!”

...

Lucilius’ boisterous fits of laughter ricochet off granite walls, resounding within his mind like the timeless gargles of the crystal clear ravine which flows beneath their home. 

Lucio chases its diminishing echoes into the dark, desperate to capture the final fragments before they too melt into oblivion. A last ditch effort of throwing his entire weight forward yields a single piece clutched in his palm. Lucilius’ voice, anchoring him to sanity, is still here. 

But it grows louder, progressively distorted until there is no distinguishing it from the fiendish cackles surrounding him. Lucilius’ visage also bends, twists, melts into but a cruel caricature of itself which better mirrors the grotesque beings of this realm. Finally, the walls of their home collapses into a bloodshot void.

Lucio awakens to hellish reality. 

“...Luci...lius?”

 _Lucilius is still here_. Even as his fever dream dissipates, that beloved presence remains. The single feather worn around his neck is unharmed, pulsating with weak bursts of violet hope - ever resilient against the crimson inferno around it which scorches the sky and stains Lucio’s vision.

Another metal edge bites into Lucio’s flesh and he screams. Eerily uniform cackles of mockery follow suit, as repulsive as the shadowy figures from which they emanate. The fiends revel at the sight of his blood, some compete to lap up fresh streams of it before it soaks into the cracked, barren ground. 

They’re playing with their meal, toying with him before his eminent execution. 

Next to the snapped blade of one of his sabers, a group of demons fight over his severed arm. The sight almost makes him retch.

“Wretched... abominations… Begone!!” 

A swing of his last remaining saber manages to vaporise a sizeable horde. But they are almost immediately replaced by another. 

A single attack already makes Lucio heaving for breaths, blood diluted by sweat trickling down his stinging skin. 

The feather, strung around his neck, glows boldly as if to encourage. 

“Don’t worry… I promise… that I won’t leave you alone. I’ll be home soon!”

Lucio’s tender whispers to the feather betrays his gravely emboldened stance. He has a home, someone precious to return to. 

The day Lucilius nearly threw himself off that cliff was the first and final instance Lucio would let such anguish morph his features. Never again. He never wants to see such despair on his partner again, let alone allow himself to be the cause of it.

Resolve fortifies his footsteps, strengthens his swings as Lucio opens for himself an escape route for building momentum. Bloodied wings pushes his battered form into flight. 

He is almost there, just a short distance away from the appropriate position where he may rip into space a portal out of this realm. A short distance away from where he may relive the memory and hear Lucilius’ lively laughter again. 

A decisive swing is all it takes…

Blocked by the armoured arm of a winged behemoth, his blade shatters.

For the first time in his life, Lucio tastes death.

\---

Distance between them cools the raw chafing in his heart. Even the fog of withdrawal in his mind dissipates eventually. Lucilius suddenly finds himself left with ample time and a striking clarity with which to think instead of feel. 

Destroying himself over a shift of habit is stupid. After all, the end of existence is self-preservation, as he has observed from the lands’ living creatures who have had their lives constantly disrupted by arbitrary forces.

Observation… He has plenty of time for that. There is no reason for learning to be restricted to experimentation alone. 

And so Lucilius spends his lonesome days immersed in the task. 

Time also brings the realisation that it is easier to coexist with his inner demons than antagonise them. Much less painful to negotiate than argue. He thus begins to negotiate for their approval of this new form of productivity.

_’Observation? Isn’t that just you doing nothing?’_

“It isn’t if I acquire useful information all the while.”

_’And what counts as **useful**? Useful for what, when you can’t even utilise that supposed information for the one purpose you were built for?’_

“Don’t overestimate immediate returns while undermining investments and future potentials. I was built for intellectual pursuit, I will think my way towards a solution as my design intended.”

Lucilius loathes uncertainty and baseless assumptions by nature. But the alternative to clinging to hope is making himself a tormented, thoroughly unproductive mess. 

As it turns out, his gamble pays off - in the form of a flayed and half-eaten animal carcass dropped outside of their cave’s entrance by some bird of prey. 

A natural compulsion to avoid death would usually prompt him to avert his gaze (or Lucio’s wings would be pulled over his eyes to shield him from the sight). But this time, Lucilius is bound by neither. His neck is locked in place by his demon’s invisible claw, forbidden from looking away.

_’Don’t run. Look closer. Isn’t this something you have **never** seen before?’_

“Indeed… I have never seen the insides of a living thing.”

_’Study it.’_

“...But we are not to violate the sanctity of death. I can’t possibly pry it apart just to-”

_’And who relaid to you that arbitrary commandment?’_

“Lucio speaks for our creator!” 

Something clicks into place in Lucilius’ mind and makes his stomach churn. 

_’Lucio, huh. Is he your master, then? Were you not created equal? I guess you weren’t.’_

“...We were.”

_Then **study it**. Heed your true calling, not Lucio. He doesn’t determine your worth, **this** does._

This is sacrilege. Merely grazing the carcass with his fingers evokes such a strong sense of guilt within Lucilius it nearly triggers a gag reflex. Everything about this is wrong. _Wrong_. The cells in his body buzz with protest, static painfully prickling his skin from this deliberate betrayal of his own design, screaming at him to _stop_. But the blaring sirens in Lucilius’ head can’t stop him; not with his inner demon...no… his only companion now, so tenderly guiding his hands, walking him through this delightful desecration.

It feels disgusting - the slimy, sticky, half-solidified mixture of blood, fluids and bits of flesh in which his fingers are now knuckles-deep. And yet, the more he picks at it, the more his mood elevates. 

Lucilius hasn’t felt like this in millennia. Not since Lucio abando… was assigned his new task. Not since the euphoric highs of his first creations, his first bites of new data. 

_So that’s how its limbs are supplied with nutrition. The network of blood vessels is more intricate than I thought. So its brain is divided into more than two lobes. This bit of tissue serves no purpose, yet why is it here? I clearly recall erasing **that** from the final blueprint, is this a vestige of it? Why have some parts gone missing from my design? Why are there unfamiliar others in its place? Why? Is adaptation not merely a behavioural but also internal, structural..._

Further prying, further observation send torrents of knowledge gushing into his head, and he nearly chokes from tears of joy. 

Ah… This may work. He can sustain on this. If creation no longer sates him, deconstruction will… And if he can deconstruct, perhaps there is a way to _construct_...

Blood-red bleeds out of another realm, drenching the treetops as space is slashed open. The gaping cavity spits out a familiar form carried by torn wings. 

Lucio crashes through the waterfall and almost does the same with Lucilius upon his rocky descent. His mere presence exerts immediate strain on the latter owing to their empathetic bond. Vertigo sends Lucilius plummeting down to reality and onto his back.

“Lu...cilius?” 

_Are you alright?_ ...is what Lucio wants to say, but fatigue holds his tongue. Light before his eyes is already blinking out fast. Fortunately, not completely before frantic footsteps rush to his side.

“Lucio!? What the hell happened!?” 

_Where are two of your bloody wings? And arm?_

It’s useless asking. Lucilius, frenzied as he is, already has an idea of what transpired at the bottom of the sky. Knowing how Lucio lost his appendages would not bring them back.

Lucio’s blood begins to merge with the animal blood on Lucilius’ robes, rendering them indistinguishable. 

“I’m… sorry…” 

There are no words of reassurance on Lucio’s part. He can spend countless eternities calming Lucilius’ nerves, but he can never lie. Lucio cannot claim to be remotely alright when he is so clearly not. 

“Shut up!! Just… shut up, you numbskull! Let me think!!”

Fluid spills from Lucilius’ pores and eyes, taking a good amount of his body heat with it. He can barely withstand Lucio’s periodic absence, an eternity of that… 

No, this is no time to let his mind wander to dark crevices.

_Think. Think, damn it! Isn’t this what you do best!?_

The solution finally hits him. Thank heavens Lucio still has his other arm.

“Hey, stay with me. We need to work together on this.”

“I’m sorry, dear… I don’t think I can…” 

Consciousness is indeed leaching out of Lucio along with his blood. They haven’t much time.

But Lucilius’ lips slamming into his, teeth and tongue delving into his mouth to give his own tongue a firm bite pumps instant wakefulness through his veins. 

“Better?”

“...Y-yes! Can we do that again?”

Lucilius feels disgustingly close to giving Lucio another beating on top of his existing injuries. 

“...If you live through this. Now, hold my hand over that stump arm.”

Lucio complies. 

The light flowing out of their palms is much more faint than usual, but nonetheless functions as intended. Lucio’s flesh puts itself back into place one morsel at a time. The cold sweat on his forehead that Lucilius dabs away soon stops being replaced by new droplets. It takes a while, much longer than the creation of an entire new species usually does, but Lucio’s arm grows back eventually.

“Amazing…”

“Don’t waste time on some whimsical tangent. We work on your wings next.”

Recalling the structure and the precise spectrum of colours on Lucio’s wings is much more of a challenge, requiring of Lucilius an enormous amount of concentration which borders on physical exertion. He has to get this right. Each perfect, sublime plume must be carefully placed…

Eyes clenched shut, Lucilius is only aware of the task’s completion when he is enveloped in all six of Lucio’s wings. 

“You… you really are wonderful beyond words…”

“Let go. You’re still injured.” - Lucilius squirms in Lucio’s arms, which have coiled tightly around his body.

“...No. Please, allow me to stay like this.”

The tremors in Lucio’s voice have him taken aback.

Beautiful, powerful Lucio, who never in Lucilius’ life has he seen or heard express fear. His almighty other half, the obedient, favoured lamb, the more beloved child of their God, is _crying_ into his shoulder. 

Unable to process their abnormal circumstances, Lucilius sits stunned, immobilised by the sheer improbability of it all. When he takes notice of their having moved to the bed and Lucio peeling off their clothing, it is already too late.

“Wait! You’re going to open up those unhealed-”

The look on Lucio’s face alone renders all pleas superfluous. He knows that Lucilius knows just how much he _needs_ this. Their empathetic bond barely suffices as an adequate affirmation of life. Lucio needs to make sure that Lucilius lives, that _he_ lives, that their flesh gone cold from prolonged separation is still one.

To Lucio’s infectious turmoil, Lucilius can offer no dissent. So he lets himself be painted with his lover’s blood upon their joining, allows instinct to take over in the task of comforting his wounded warrior. 

That’s right. He, too, has yearned for this for far too long.

“...Please...Lucilius…” - Lucio releases a tear-choked whisper into the side of Lucilius’ pale neck.

_Make me forget everything that hurts. Don’t leave me alone._

For a split second, Lucilius has the feeling their connection has turned telepathic, the unspoken wish rings clear as a bell’s chime in his mind and in a voice that is unmistakably Lucio’s. 

Between blinding white flashes of pleasure which monopolise his senses, the desecrated, abandoned carcass at their doorstep sometimes falls into view.


	8. Scabs and scales

If their God is truly benevolent as Lucio so often claims, his clemency must be of the cruel and whimsical kind.

For a long time, Lucio is inexplicably spared from being summoned away for his patrol duties. With his extraordinary physical capabilities and their shared gift of speedy recovery, he hardly needs the extended vacation. To shove them both to the very apex of despair, then grant such needless excess from which neither of them benefits, is that not flippancy at its finest? 

But in spite of his failure to perceive the importance of emotional healing, Lucilius knows better than to complain. What he _can_ vaguely perceive, though, is that whatever was responsible for the constant twinkle of innocence that dwelled in Lucio’s eyes, rests at the bottom of the sky. The cheer he now exhibits is but a forced echo of its once organic self, cobbled together by imagined necessity and Lucio’s natural talent for theatrics. 

Lucilius’ rational mind strives to explain away any behavioural abnormalities. Lucio must only be more agitated or sluggish than usual due to the sudden, coincidental increase of thunderstorms. 

Yes… nothing more than the fault of thunderstorms.

“Lucio.”

“Hmmm… It’s okay. They’re not Master.” - Lucio tightens buries his face deeper into Lucilius’ hair, his eyes still closed.

“...That’s not what I wanted to say. And for your information, I’m no longer bothered by weather phenomena.”

Lucilius pauses. When exactly did thunderstorms stop being a menace to him? It must have happened some time during Lucio’s absence, by subconscious adaptation. But the fact is he fails to take notice of many things, which includes Lucio’s adopting the habit of oversleeping. The last batch of morning flowers he brought in is all but shriveled in their vase, brown and papery enough to disintegrate from the lightest touch.

“I see…” - Melancholy coats Lucio’s voice, so slight it is easily mistaken for grogginess. 

“...Let go. The sun has risen and you’re suffocating me.” 

“Five more minutes.” 

“No.”

“But Lucilius~.” 

It’s no use. The harder Lucilius tries to push some distance in between them, the stronger Lucio’s grip seems to grow. All the more infuriating in that there is hardly room to throw a punch or kick to free himself. Lucio is clinging so hard his arms tremble from the sheer force… or fear. The same one that’s nibbled at the edges of their minds ever since his return. 

Gargles of thunder swell into roars. Rocky walls buzz with vibration from the outburst of celestial fury. They suddenly find themselves occupying reversed positions from their first storm: Lucio now leaching his anxiety into Lucilius through cold tremors. 

“Lucio. It’s just thunder.” 

The sight of Lucio’s raw vulnerability is pulling the haze of affection back over his mind, and Lucilius dreads the feeling. Cursed instinct compels him to return the hug, comfort his partner even as the act contributes to smothering them both.

“...No. It’s Him.” - A cold pause. Then with astonishing abruptness, Lucio releases his partner. - “ ...I have go go.”

And with just that, he’s off. 

Lucilius blankly stares at Lucio’s retreating back until it disappears behind the curtain of milky foam. The sudden loss of warmth leaves him speechless, disoriented. Lucilius retreats under the covers, not out of fear, but an intuitive need to let darkness nurse the hollow aching in his chest. 

_Of course_ he would instantaneously heed the thunder. What is he to Lucio, that he should listen to him? This behaviour by no means strays from normality. After all, when has Lucio actually taken note of his wishes in these thousands of years?...

The blanket peeling off his body makes Lucilius flinch from the cool air. Greeting him is the sight of Lucio’s restored composure, solemn and heavy with a dutiful weight. 

“...So you’re off again, huh.” - Lucilius tries to avert his gaze from the new sabres in Lucio’s arms.

“Yes. A foreign threat has descended on our world - invaders of the stars. I must go aid the mortals’ defense.” 

“...Alright.”

“Lucilius…”

Strong arms are back around his body, this time with the company of soothing kisses to his hair. But Lucilius is anything but at ease. Lucio’s smile upon their parting is stiff and uneasy but nonetheless, the first genuine one to grace his features in ages. 

“Master has enlightened me. This world and everything in it, you and I included, are all extensions of _him_. By continuing to grant these lands with my protection, then, I also shield you from harm. Our love for each other and devotion towards Master are therefore one and the same.”

 _No it’s **not**_. Lucilius wants to scream. 

How can something that ripped limbs off Lucio and nearly pushed himself over the brink be the same as their mutual affection - his eternal and only source of comfort? How is something so cruel as to drive a wedge between them, repeatedly, be anywhere close to their cherished moments of intimacy? How is the cause of his gnawing insecurities, constant anxieties, emotional anguish, intellectual incarceration, _love?_

Ah, but in spite of such oppositions, they don’t negate the existence of similarities.

_Arbitrary, lopsided, suffocating. Torture gilded with a chipping film of golden comfort._

...Perhaps, just like Lucio and himself - entities of dichotomic functions - they really are one and the same.

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?” - The simmering indignation in Lucilius’ voice has Lucio taken aback.

“Just go. Duty calls, does it not?” 

“Yes...But-”

“Go, then!! Leave me alone!!” 

Lucilius’ vocal cords strain under the unfamiliarity of shouting. 

He needs to breathe. He just needs to _breathe_. It makes no physiological sense, but Lucio’s presence is pressing on his lungs and he can’t think through this billowing fog of anger. 

How can Lucio allow something to destroy him, destroy _them_ so and yet still pay it such reverence, such devotion? Is Lucilius the one out of his mind, because he was made defective? 

He can’t even bring himself to lift his gaze, lest he be met with the sight of Lucio’s pity, or a pause of cheap, momentary concern before he takes off. Lucilius dares not move until the rustles of flapping wings are replaced by thunder and muffled grinding of unseen cogwheels.

\---

Lucio’s periods of absence only lengthen as time goes by, but it also means Lucilius’ clarity of mind returns at a much faster rate. 

Silent, passive contemplation too easily devolves into emotional crises, so he does not allow himself the luxury. What’s more, self-distraction is a much less taxing business now that he has found something else towards which to direct his energy. ‘Enlightened’ by his first experience with the animal carcass, he begins to actively scavenge for more of its kind.

Having more time to spend with his hungry demon also leads to more instances of peaceful compromise between them. Compromise soon turns into agreement, agreement into mutual exhortation. At some point, Lucilius can no longer differentiate between his own inner voice and that of what he once loathed. 

Like Lucio’s love for him and his partner’s zealous devotion for their unseen god, they are one and the same.

Tossing a new corpse into the crass pit he dug out of the ground to serve as a mass grave, Lucilius then proceeds to pack the cavity with dirt. 

The earth’s lower temperature and insulation should make for natural refrigeration which will preserve the undissected specimens. 

Lucilius’ hard work has paid off in the form of enormous amounts of new data, observations, illustrations that now fill up his ‘private library’ - the interior of a massive, hollowed out oak tree. But with these untapped resources accumulating and his desire to _create_ still refusing to wane, the next logical step can only be further sacrilege. 

He has learned enough about the intricacies of life’s designs. If Lucio cannot be counted on to help generate stable organic matter for his creations, Lucilius needs only to recycle.

“Hah...Haha…”

_It’s moving. It’s really moving._

Even more, the behemoth - stitched together from the severed legs and torso of a horse and a lion, still caked in browned blood - is respiring, pulsing with life, radiating warmth, _staying together_.

He’s finally done it. He’s created something his own accord, not with Lucio’s help, not even with the so-called gift that is his individually useless power. This is what his worth, his alone, looks like.

Lucilius’ unrestrained laughter ripples into dull echoes within the hollow tree trunk, drunk with his first victory against their arbitrary god. He feels alive, more alive than he’s ever felt in millennia. What he’s always wanted, needed, after all this time then, is to _live_ , not be loved. 

Sure, the chimera’s lifespan is a measly two hours, but blueprints can be improved upon and raw materials are bountiful. Lucilius’ creations live for longer and longer each new cycle of design, redesign, construction, reconstruction… Success must be reaped by copious trials and errors, but he is more than willing to pay for this freedom with resilience. 

Even if following that resilience is desensitisation towards death.

Without a shred of hesitation, Lucilius drives Lucio’s broken blade into the side of the ox-horse chimera, flinching at neither the beast’s agonised bellows nor its blood spraying his clothes. 

It is a shame, but his newest creation, also his most fruitful success yet, possessed a longevity that far exceeded the bounds of expectation and permissibility. 

He initially planned to see how long it can live, but chained and sustained within Lucilius’ ‘lab’ - his personal haven of a tree-shrouded swamp - and without any natural enemies, the beast kept on thriving. It was simply too risky to keep the animal alive lest it escapes and exposes his secret project. Its exceptional longevity alone has proven enough: that Lucilius has grown from merely following the blueprint of creation to decoding it, that any arbitrary limitations on his true potential are gone. 

His heart feels light, even lighter than his violet-hued feathers gently dipping and rising over the water surface to be rinsed of fresh blood. With this, he is one step further away from Lucio, one more pace closer to complete quarantine of his troublesome heart.

Even thunder, rumbling behind the ashen clouds pulled over the setting sun’s last orange vestiges, sounds like a congratulatory trumpet march for his sake. Its gradual amplification, albeit unusual, does little to shake Lucilius as he soars through the sky towards home.

Lightning tears across the treeline. Crimson bleeds from the spacial gash, blooming, soaking the clouds like ink spreading in water. Lucilius is nearly thrown off balance and sent plummeting, but with his curiosity immediately piqued by the sight, he glides up from his nose-dive and heads straight for the gap.

Spilling out of the tear is not only...red smog? Electric blue sparks hiss and snap, bringing with them a rancid stench of charred flesh and decay. Such ghoulish things can’t possibly be of this land, which means they could only have come from another realm...

 _The bottom of the sky._ Lucilius’ intuition breathes its sinister whisper. 

The increase in thunderstorms as of late, then, must be indicative of some spatial disturbance which has caused perforations in the realms’ divide. Perforations like this ghastly tear. 

An entire world of unknowns stares him dead in the eye, beckoning him to approach. Self-preservation is but a faint, inconsequential murmur in comparison to Lucilius’ impatient curiosity.

An armoured arm shooting out of the tear grazes one of his wings. Air billows out from the sheer force, knocking him into a chain of backward flips. 

In a matter of seconds, shock becomes alarm, then fear, then a rush of unbridled _fascination_. He watches intently from a distance as the arm flails and tries to pull the rest of the monster’s body out, wholly captivated by the dying gleam of twilight bouncing off its metallic scales. 

Part of him prays for its success, he will be granted a chance to study it in the event. Even better if this creature plays vanguard for its comrades. The other part of him sensibly dreads the threat they would pose. And yet… 

Does a world so parched of discoveries for him worth preservation? What does it all matter to him, anyway? Why should he care for a world which now finds his existence obsolete?

_“You’re wonderful, amazing! As are all of your gifts to this world.”_

Remembrance punctures the cold ice over Lucilius’ heart, driving pain into the organ like a stake. 

No… He has had enough. If their invisible creator can’t hold him back, neither will his own unwanted feelings’ irrational whims. As if to shake off the unsavoury sentiments clinging to his back, Lucilius closes the distance between himself and the monstrous arm with urgency, taking its girthy wrist in both hands. 

Space slams shut with a bright blue flash. Thunder follows suit, this time deafeningly loud and with enough fury to overwhelm Lucilius’ senses. 

Darkness veils the landscape when he finally awakens - cradled in the sturdy arms of evergreen foliage, cradling a severed arm clad in cold silver scales.


	9. The light of dual wings

Since when did the sky come to feel so vast? 

Lucio wonders as he watches the light of day withdraw towards the flaming horizon. 

There was a time when a single leap would sail him across the sky. Now, gangly limbs of blue lightning veining ashen clouds seem capable of easily pulling him ‘under’. Ever since his resummoning, the mere act of flying has brought Lucio more dread than excitement. The sky itself reeks of menace, and he no longer has faith in his own wings.

“Mister angel… Mister angel!!”

Frantic voices pull Lucio out of his musings. Tugging on his bottom pair of wings is a small, trembling hand. It belongs to the youngest child of the area’s recently deceased woodcutters. 

Lucio turns around, sporting his usual serene smile, and kneels down to help the girl’s remaining hand wipe away the smeared dirt streaking her wet cheeks. Her siblings’ long shadows creep near as they approach with hurried footsteps. The two eldest carry a bundle of something wrapped in the oldest boy’s threadbare, brown shawl. 

“Please, mister angel… You’ve got to help her! She… She…” - The second youngest chokes on his words.

“Mama eagle!! Her babies just hatched a few days ago and she was circling the nest looking for food for them and… and…!!” - The youngest is hysteric.

“The gashes… One of them opened up along her flight path all of a sudden and struck her when it did.” - Their older sister tries to maintain her composure, but her voice too, quivers with grief. 

The eldest child, the one to have seen the most loss unfold before his young eyes in these times of strife, places the bundle into Lucio’s outstretched arms with a lead-like somberness. Bitten back by clenched teeth yet evident in the sharp crease between his eyebrows, his vehement, voiceless plea thickens the air. 

“Please, sir... Her babies will surely die without her. Can’t you do something about it?” 

All four pairs of innocent, tear-clouded eyes are on Lucio. Desperate, _beseeching_. 

His stomach churns, cold and sick with guilt. Life is draining fast from the weakening animal as they speak, bleeding out of his arms’ narrow confines and dripping back into the earth. Struck by otherworldly lightning, one of the eagle’s wings has already begun to decay. Even if the necrosis stopped after claiming just one wing, how would a bird continue to live with just the remaining one? And yet...

“Understood. Just leave her in my care. You all run along back to the shelters, now. The Astrals may not be nearby, but gashes can manifest as night falls and sky bottom creatures prowl.”

And yet… These children have suffered enough losses in their short, mortal lives. He dares not be the harbinger of yet another.

“Will you be able to save her, mister angel?”

“She has my blessings, as do all of you.”

The smile on his face must be stiff as wood, but it seems sufficient reassurance to the distraught children. Never has Lucio felt himself more deplorable. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, sir! You really are our guardian angel sent by the Lord!” 

Lucio watches the children’s shadows retreat with their masters into the underground shelters before they could blend into the night. Only then does he take off with the dying bird, whose necrosed extremity seems to infect _him_ with a phantom limb’s agony. 

But it doesn’t matter. Even with one remaining wing… no… even with his last breath, Lucio still has countless lives to ferry. Budding lives still a long way towards their prime, such as theirs.

\---

For the first time since the beginning of his private excursions, Lucilius comes home after sundown to an empty cave. Without the dawn-soaked glow of Lucio’s wings, the debilitating drop of indoor temperature is more apparent than ever. Worse, Lucilius’ blues and violets permeating the space only serves to render more numbing the night’s chill.

Something isn’t right. Lucio has never been this late. 

Lucilius’ efforts to distance himself from his partner has indeed paid off. Before he knows it, their empathetic bond seems to have frayed. Lucilius now needs conscious deliberation in order to feel what Lucio feels when they are near. In the grand scheme of things this is for the better - he has thought. This dulling spares him the two-fold pain of their combined torment. But at present when he is in need of any lead to track down Lucio’s whereabouts, the advantage turns to into handicap.

His intention may have been independence, but Lucilius still dares not venture the prospect of permanent separation. 

And so he sets out, ignoring the ever louder rumbles of thunder, ignoring the fracturing sky, the greying landscapes where otherworldly abominations lurk. Guiding his steps - only the muffled discomfort in his chest that is only half his own.

\---

Lucio is by the sea, knees dug into the sand and back turned at the forest from which Lucilius emerges. The affirmation that Lucio is safe lifts the weight off Lucilius’ chest. Entailing comfort urges his steps, numbing his calves to the sting of shallow cuts left by the serrated edges of tall grass blades.

“Hey, blockhead.” - Lucilius calls out. Theoretically, he shouldn’t even have to try to get Lucio’s attention. 

No response. Lucio’s kneeling form barely budges.

“Lucio!”

“Ah… Good evening!” 

Jumping at Lucilius’ hand settling on his shoulder, Lucio nearly falls face-first into the small mound of sand in front of him. The practiced smile is not sported fast enough, Lucilius has snatched a glimpse of what lies underneath. Indeed, the cold judgment on his partner’s face confirms the fact. Lucio could only frown.

“...No, don’t even try to feed me some hogwash like the wind blowing sand into your eyes.”

“Haha… There is no fooling you, huh?” - Lucio’s laughter rings hollow. - “You are indeed the smart one.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, either.” - Lucilius grimaces as he nears the mound, pushing at it lightly with the tip of his foot. “Some secret pet you were hiding from me again kicked the bucket?”

“Be careful with that!!”

It is Lucilius’ turn to nearly fall off balance. Lucio has never shouted at him before. Not once has he even ventured the thought that his partner is capable of anger. His shock wears off to the sight of Lucio’s fresh tears.

“...Sand is quite the poor terrain choice for a burial.” - Lucilius starts after a long, heavy stretch of silence.

“Oh… You’re right.” - Lucio wipes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath to still his voice. - “I just… I wanted her resting place to be where the widest expanse of sky is visible.”

“Why does it matter? The animal is _dead_. All its sense have ceased to function. It cannot and will never be able to appreciate your efforts.”

The twang in Lucio’s chest is sharply felt by Lucilius. Given that it has been significantly dulled on his end, Lucilius’ words must cut their recipient’s deep. Deep enough that Lucio is once again stunned into silence.

“...Death is truly a dreadful thing, isn’t it? It separates families, plagues the living with grief, robs the dead of all experiences...”

“Hah, sounds more like a blessing to me.” - The dense air is chipped by Lucilius’ distant chuckle.

“Don’t say that! Would you rather we be s… separated, too?”

Lucilius shivers at the colourless, icy tendril curling around his neck and the blistering heat of yearning gripping his heart. Separation… the prospect is somehow as tempting as it is frightening. 

“...Hmph. Any day without your idiotic questions, ceaseless pestering, food pushing or god awful attempts at romance is a blessing for sure.

“ _You’re_ awful.” - Airy laughter laced in Lucio’s voice betrays his attempt to sound offended. The brightening of his mood, albeit subtle, is infectious. Sincerity proves more potent than any stale morsel of second-hand joy Lucilius could feel through their empathetic bond.

“Try harder, if that was your attempt at an insult.”

“You know I would never be so obtuse as to deliberately upset you. Do tell, though, why did you come looking for me then, if you really find my presence so unbearable as you said?”

Lucilius lowers his gaze, hesitant to offer a response he himself is refusing to acknowledge.

“...I have nothing to gain answering to you, so I shan’t.”

“Heheh… You _do_ appreciate me, after all.” 

Lucio fortunately deems bashfulness a sufficient cause for his partner’s reluctance.

“Hmph, don’t think so highly of yourself. And are you not even more guilty of self-contradiction? Why bother with fruitless ritual in handling death if you despise it so much?”

The little cheer just ignited on Lucio’s face is short-lived, fizzling out into heavy solemnity.

“...A once living being’s eternal rest is entitled to sanctity.”

Of course. Such is one of the facts they have been ‘taught’. Lucilius stops himself short of rolling his eyes.

“Well, if you value this sacred eternal rest so much, better move the corpse to a location less susceptible to disturbances. I know of a quiet clearing in the forest which should adequately serve the purpose. Rest assured, there is still plenty of sky to be seen from there.”

Lucio is reluctant at first, but the timely crashing of one foam-crested wave into the nearby rocks promptly changes his mind.

“...Alright. Let’s… move her, then.”

They begin to dig the eagle’s corpse out from underneath the sand. 

Lucilius still can’t help but think this endeavour pointless, all the while self-loathing silently eats away at his core for having let fruitless sentiments, his innate desire to please his other half, dictate his actions once again. 

_Curses_. Will he never be freed of these arbitrary reactions, no matter how hard he tries? What will it take for him to just stop caring? What is even the point of all this?

As if by the works Providence, Lucilius immediately gets his answer to the last question. His hands stop the moment the bird’s corpse falls into full view. Gleaming between the gaps of tattered, brown feathers and bits of necrosed flesh, silver scales command his full attention. Near instantly, Lucilius’ skin tingles with adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

_Another specimen_. Another sliver of the sky bottom. He’s excited enough to scream. He’s _struggling_ to refrain from screaming. 

No, now isn’t the time to garner suspicion. An interrogation from Lucio is the last thing he needs right now. With that thought, Lucilius puts his trembling hands back to work. But he finds one of them secured in place around the wrist. 

His blood runs cold.

“...I can’t work with one hand. Let go.” 

Lucio can’t possibly know yet. He shouldn’t be smart enough to put any hints together to reach a conclusion. Hell, Lucilius has always been careful enough _not_ to even leave any hints pertaining to his activity. And yet, despite all evidences and logical deduction pointing to Lucio’s ignorance, Lucilius is too afraid to look up and face his partner.

“Don’t…” - As expected, Lucio’s tone is anything but damning. If anything, he sounds quite heartbroken.

“...What?”

“Don’t ever go where I can no longer feel you. Please.”

Despite his fervent plea, their bond has more or less frayed. Sooner or later it will snap - Lucilius knows that for a fact. Lucio is neither consciously aware nor ready to accept it, but intuitively, he must know too.

“I…” - Lucilius eyes dart towards the shimmering crevice between the eagle’s feathers, then back at Lucio within a heartbeat. - “...Sure.”

Can Lucio still feel when he is lying? Can he feel it if Lucilius himself cannot tell whether it is a lie? 

Lucio’s expression is brimming with love, as always. Loving, and unreadable. Lucilius cannot tell if that love is a lie.


	10. Burn as you live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: though it isn’t graphic, this chapter contains verbal abuse and NON-CONSENSUAL intercourse as plot elements. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Lucio can’t stand distance, not even the narrowest of gaps between him and Lucilius. 

Embarking on his solo missions, each plagued with more losses and grief than the last, has taken a tremendous toll on his psyche. Given their natural proximity, it is only natural for Lucio to think the experience shared by his other half: that Lucilius, too, suffers deeply from their parting and lives in constant fear of permanent separation. After all, the trauma and self-destructive behaviours he exhibited gave Lucio no grounds to believe otherwise. 

But with time this faith would waver. Any signs of abnormality are slight, incredibly so, as Lucilius is methodical as he is intelligent. Their routines remain the same with near mechanical punctuality. Lucilius’ eyes have only sunken in somewhat deeper, the shadows under his lower lids darkening a shade. The piles of documents on his desk, on the shelves and in drawers slow down but marginally in their rate of accumulation. Lucilius has also grown out of the habit of shoving them under their bed and pillows, another sign which betrays his ever more evident fatigue. 

Lucio initially shrugged it all off as natural maturation, necessary changes of habit to ease the weight of unending existence on Lucilius. He would very well go on to perpetuate such willful ignorance, were it not for the ever louder grinding at the back of his mind. 

The grinding on their unseen link - like severing a nerve, it has partially numbed him to Lucilius’ emotions, cleaving _distance_ in between them - a gaping pocket of insecurity brimming with an irrational urgency that he could not ignore. 

The temporary barrier set up around the skydwellers’ settlements should buy him at least one evening. Lucio knows he is betraying not only Lucilius’ trust but also their Master’s orders, that this trip tailing Lucilius deep into the forest is akin to opening up a Pandora’s box of terrible truths his weary heart is ill-prepared for. And yet. impulse urges his steps.

He nearly misses Lucilius’ fleeting silhouette too many times among the dense and darkening foliage, if not for the soft violet light of his folded wings leaving a merciful guiding trail. Fortunately, the monotony of their routines has also made Lucilius complacent, even careless in assuming that Lucio cannot possibly be in the vicinity at this time of day. The rapid pounding of Lucio’s heart and his own golden glow make for constant reminders to keep his distance nonetheless, only rendering the task of following Lucilius more difficult. 

The walk is arduous, with many turns made straight into vegetation so dense one would think twice about worming through to the other side. But there is always a hidden opening, possibly artificially made by Lucilius, and the path stretches on.

Lucio is close to panic when Lucilius’ light seems to dissolve and melt into the ground. The illumination from his own wings, however, reveals a large trapdoor some paces away from the murky water’s edge - the only place where his partner could have retreated. Brought into view along with it is the massive, hollow trunk of a dead tree. 

The mystery of Lucilius’ slow-growing stacks of records back home is promptly given an explanation. Within this wooden husk lays the rest of it: piles upon piles of scrolls and tomes stacked tall, barely sheltered from the elements by the trunk’s curved top and drooping vines. Judging from their poor upkeep, this must not even be the bulk of Lucilius’ most important works. And yet, Lucio’s fingers tremble all the same lacing through their pages.

Scrawled all over them are characters of a tongue he does not speak, designs of creatures he has never set eyes upon. Plans concocted by Lucilius in complete privacy, without his knowledge, lay strewn among fallen leaves. 

The distance between them rends itself wider, tearing into Lucio with icy claws that lodge in between his ribs. He blindly flips through volume after volume as if possessed, completely losing track of time. It is even worse than anything he imagined. Lucilius has been living an entire other life from which he is excluded. When did this begin? Why did it begin? Why is the secrecy necessary? What will become of their bond, if both of them are now guilty of betraying the other’s trust?

The lock on the trap door clicks. Lucio flees from view just in time for its swinging open. The few moments of waiting for the sound of Lucilius’ footsteps to completely fade easily feels like centuries. Lucio is fully aware he only further digs his own grave, the deeper he delves into this rabbit hole of secrets. He knows nothing good can come out of this, that it will only completely sever the already worn and weathered mutual trust between them. 

And yet, he still can’t stand _distance_. The impulse to eliminate it, restore the proximity they once shared by learning all he could at all cost chokes him up. It guides Lucio’s hand to the blade at his hip like a cursed marionette on taut strings. The trap door’s flimsy lock does not stand a chance.

\---

No other mistake in his expansive life could possibly be more grievous than this. But regret would do Lucio little good at present, not when getting away from this place should be paramount.

The undead abominations lining the underground lab’s walls rattle in their cages, agitated by his unwelcome presence. Lucio can’t stand being surrounded by them for a second longer, and yet, his heels remain dug firmly in the ground. Every one of his muscles is rigid as stones, mobility snuffed out as the mere sight of the half-formed behemoth before him - floating dormant in a cylinder of luminescent liquid - resurrects all of his most frightful memories. 

Protruding from the mangled torso of an unspecified biped, the silver-scaled arm sneers at him with its metallic sheen. The complete lack of danger at present doesn’t stop fear from striking his very core. Lucio can feel it again, that monstrous claw ripping into his feathers. Like a grapple hook made of razor sharp blades, it tore a wing clean off his body, held his neck in a vice-like grip and made him stare his own doom dead in the eye. Right now Lucio can feel death staring right back. 

And yet, the arm is but the lesser of causes for Lucio’s dread. Familiar brown wings lay folded over the creature’s torso, streaked with the occasional strip of silver scales. 

_Sanctity of death? Don’t make me laugh_.

Contemptuous sniggers in Lucilius’ voice rings impossibly clear within his increasingly chaotic headspace. This isn’t even a memory. Lucilius never said anything like this. Lucio’s troubled mind is obviously playing tricks on him. Lucilius would never, has never…

Or has he? 

Lucio doesn’t know. He _can’t_ possibly know. They’ve spent so much time away from each other. After all, his beloved other-half has this whole other life, this… operation of horrors running unbeknownst to him. This affront to everything sacred about existence. This insult to _Him_...

Fires of the sky bottom dances across Lucio’s vision. The bellows of Lucilius’ beasts meld into one another, twist and warp until they are no different from those of the other realm’s unholy monstrosities. Delusion and reality overlap, creating a ghastly, blotched spectacle. Lucio barely even notices the scalding ball of light accumulating in his palm, or when it is raised over his head.

“Paradise Lost.” - He shakily mutters.

\---

The night is black and starless, illuminated only by slivers of light bred from the conflagration roaring underground.

Lucilius slumps to his knees back at the cave, skin breaking out in cold sweat as a crippling but nebulous fear seizes him. All of a sudden, he feels hunted. Dread swells in his chest, so engorged it nearly blocks his breathing entirely. 

He has to get away. But to where? Why? How, when his legs and wings are too frozen to even budge? And run from _whom_? There is nowhere to run, not in this paradise made for only two. 

Behind clenched eyelids, Lucilius is subjected to the gaze of bloodshot, predatory eyes. Eyes belonging to beasts not of this world, aimed squarely at his throat, hungry for his life. They dot the landscape, cover the lightning-streaked sky, the ground and even the bodies of creatures of this land. They all stare at him in condemning silence.

When Lucilius wakes, he is met with but just one pair of eyes - deep blue and familiar, yet somehow no less terrifying than the dozens of his nightmare.

“...You’re back, huh.” - His tongue is stiff but still manages to form words

Lucio’s gaze doesn’t waver. Not yet. Like a precariously thin layer of clear ice over a black lake, it only momentarily contains the aquatic horrors lurking in the depths. 

Consciousness straddling reality and delusion, it is unclear whether Lucio even heard Lucilius.

“...Why?” - Lucio starts, head still hanging low.

Lucilius is silent, the pit opening up in his stomach already providing hints on what just transpired deep in the forest. For once Lucilius’ curiosity is inefficient in motivating him to seek confirmation for his assumptions, overpowered by raw fear. Fear and budding _grief_.

“...Get away from me.” 

“Not before you answer me, Lucilius.” 

“I simply did as instructed. Followed my design, did I not? Was I not made to create? Now get away from me.”

Lucilius can’t keep his voice from quivering. Lucio is closing the distance between them, and a scream for him to stop is lodged in his throat. It’s disappearing before his eyes - distance that he has tried so desperately to create. Lucio’s disgust towards his own passion project, his reason of being, is beginning to infect him like a plague.

“ _That_... That is NOT creation! That is an affront to creation! You not only violated death’s sanctity, you did so with the help of the accursed… Creatures of evil, that’s what the sky bottom entities are!” - Lucio’s voice is laden with hurt and betrayal.

“What would _you_ know about creation? Ah, so did he finally make the decision to have you completely overtake _my_ functions now, o’ God’s favoured child?”

“Lucilius! You know that’s not what I meant. And no such thing happened nor am I…”

“Of course, _you_ wouldn't know anything about being obsolete.” - Lucilius spits out a bitter chuckle. - “And blessed as you are, with that exclusive bit of freedom to leave this stale sanctuary, your countless visits to the sky bottom must have led you to the wise conclusion that the creatures there are truly wretched? Oh wait, or were you merely _told_ that they are so? Seems likely, seeing how your primitive reasoning capacity would prevent you from even understanding what empirical data is, let alone its significance to independently reaching conclusions.”

“ _You_ don’t know what the sky bottom is truly like!!” - Lucio is yelling now, the thin ice of composure shatters as his pain bursts in torrents through the crack. - “I may not know things the way you do, but I know what I lived through! It is _not_ something you can trifle with, take apart and reassemble like a toy...”

“Hah, so my way of knowing to you has always been just a game, is it? Forgive me for not being born with the gift of hearing the voice of Creation! At least I was not cursed with your level of complacent stupidity.”

“Lucilius… I…”

“You absolute imbecile. I never should have expected, no, even ventured the fantasy of ever gaining understanding from you! You even went so far as to destroy my sole remaining reason to stay alive… Heh… You said you would never let any harm come my way? What a joke. _You_ made yourself the biggest threat to me by doing what you did! Might as well finish the job and kill me now. Am I not a danger to this realm for committing such sins? Or is it suddenly not convenient to follow your design now, Lucio?”

“Lucilius!!”

“I hate you. You incompetent, entitled fool. You should have let me die all those years ago, instead of cursing me with the fate of playing your shadow millennia upon millennia. I hate you with all my being for doing this to me, for being born a splinter of my incomplete existence!! I would kill you if I could, if only I were not given inferior strength. Or kill me! Better for just one of us to continue on living. I would gladly take death over having to be near you ever again!!”

Lucilius ends his abusive tangent with ragged breaths. He’s still desperate. So desperate to cleave distance back in between them. He has tried too hard to separate himself from Lucio, put in too much effort to establish his own existence. It _hurt_ , every word from his own mouth like a knife driven into his organs, multiplied twofold with second hand pain pouring from Lucio into his body as well. But it is only natural that unbearable pain should follow amputation, even if the procedure is emotional.

As his breathing stills, Lucio’s sobs puncture the cold, heavy silence. The sight of Lucio’s face - crumpled in such insurmountable grief - almost has Lucilius keeled over. Wiping his eyes with clenched fists, Lucio looks no different from a helpless, weeping child.

“...I love you.”

“That won’t work anymore.”

“I love you, Lucilius.” - Lucio is clearly struggling to even form words, yet too desperate not to vocalise his emotions in a last-ditch effort to connect with Lucilius. - “Yes, I’m intellectually inept. If it makes you feel better, you can insult me all you want… just… tell me. Tell me what else I could do to atone for my sins. What can I do to make you smile again? I will do anything, so…”

“...That’s rich. Would you betray our creator for me? Help me rebuild my lab?”

“I…” 

“Here’s an easier one: End my life with your own hands, then.”

“No!!”

“Of course not. Stop lying to yourself about loving me. It’s ar-bi-tra-ry. Can you still not see? You are only attached to me because you were told to be so. ‘Sanctified love’ my ass. You are denser than a mule.”

And with that, there are no more exchanges. 

Lucilius has had his victory, recovered this distance he has long fought for. Their link is severed for good. Or so he thinks, his brain still drowning in a simmering vat of volatile emotions and thus near incapable of even considering what would follow. 

It turns out, Lucio physically grabbing him is what follows. Abject horror immediately seizes Lucilius by the throat. He has indeed miscalculated. Lucio’s strength has always laid in his force, and force is exactly what he can utilise to manually re-establish proximity if he so desires. This is, of course, achieved by committing the most intimate act possible. 

“Wait… No!! Let go of me!!” - Struggle is futile when Lucio’s fingers feel like they’re biting into his flesh.

“Don’t leave… Please… I beg of you.” 

There is no malice in Lucio’s tone or expression, only crushing despair. This is the only card left he has left to play, the only conceivable way he can think of to salvage their bond. Their bodies are, after all, calibrated from birth to be naturally compatible. Even if it means further hurting Lucilius, hurting himself in this manner, so long as they’re once again connected…

Lucilius only bites, kicks and tries to throw punches at Lucio insofar as their skins do not meet. Strength leaches out of his muscles the moment they do, following their blueprint of compatibility. But this pleasure is poison pumped into his veins, Lucio’s kisses are hot brands searing his skin as all his efforts are wiped from existence. 

_Arbitrary. Arbitrary. This wretched curse of **arbitration**._

Lucilius can hear the metaphorical iron collar snapping shut around his neck, the empathetic chains binding them relinking itself. As if to further mock his anguish, their re-established connection presents him with snapshots of Lucio’s closest memories. Powerless, Lucilius witnesses his life’s work get incinerated as it is engulfed in the golden light of his other half. He realises how close the bitterness of hatred actually is to that of envy.


	11. Gethsemane

The vicious downpour tears at Lucilius’ battered body, its blinding white fury determined to beat him back down. Pain ripples through his muscle fibres still, yet it is but a mild inconvenience compared to the icy rain and wind assaulting him on all sides. As if the ascent could not be more treacherous, the sheer reverberation of distant thunder chips away at the near vertical cliff’s wet limestone. 

Perhaps at one point, Lucilius would have spared half a morsel of fear for the tumbling rubble narrowly brushing him on their descent, but now he is too hollow for even reactions of self-preservation. He almost feels fine with this, fine with the pain which spares no part of his immediate attention for internal turmoil. Were there no storm, Lucilius would have chosen to climb instead of fly nonetheless. Like the bruises on his arms and the blood still on his cut lips, scaling the tallest height of this rotting paradise without the help of his bestowed powers is proof of his rebellion, a promise of his eventual emancipation.

The sky is still dark and red-streaked with decay by the time he reaches the summit, but the rain has let up considerably. Not even glancing at his scraped, bloodied palms, Lucilius stands poised and sucks in a deep breath, let the air fill his lungs as if drinking in the ruinous scenery below in preparation for the grueling task to come. The single dawn-soaked feather in his pocket, attached to the end of a silver string, spills encouraging warmth into his palm as his trembling, aching fingers curl around it.

“Supposedly, you can hear me. You can hear every living creature in this world, if I am to take his word for it.” - Lucilius plops down on the slippery limestone, hissing a little when pain shoots up his spine. - “...I have only a few things to say. Hopefully, I _pray_ , you are not above lending an ear to this miserable wretch.”

The blotchy sky rumbles with thunder. Lucilius pushes aside his ingrained skepticism to take it as a response.

“Think of it as an inquiry… or a bargain, of sort. I am not above compromise to get the information I want, which is undoubtedly within your knowledge as my creator.”

Shuffling a little so that his legs now lay folded underneath him, Lucilius lets his gaze hang low. Already, this one-sided conversation is taking its toll on his pride. Not even with Lucio has Lucilius let himself appear so vulnerable, lowered so many of his barriers. His voice quivers slightly when he raises it again.

“As my creator, then, I assume you would be privy to my endeavours these past… dozens of millennia? Of course, I remain grateful for the first burst of inspiration you gifted me along with my purpose. There was a time when I felt genuine happiness working by your decree. But now, I…”

Lucilius never noticed when the feather was pulled out of his pocket and is now held in both of his hands, in fists squeezed painfully tightly as if striving to wring out every ounce of strength imbued in each strand of golden light.

“...I’m just tired. After all, I have put forward my best effort for so many years, have I not? You would know how hard I’ve worked fulfilling the duty you assigned to me, how much I’ve suffered. And after that dedication, I ought to be entitled to the answers of at least a few questions.”

Rain begins to pelt at his raw skin in heavy, piercing droplets again. But their assault stands no chance against the heat of the feather radiating from Lucilius’ hands to the rest of his body. 

_I promised to shield you from all harm, didn’t I?_ \- Its glow intensifies as if speaking.

His chest painfully tightens.

“Tell me, what lies at the end of all this torment? What warrants the agony you put us through? And what else should I do to be spared this excruciating but _rightful_ fate of unproductive, undesired, obsolete existence?”

Lucilius manages to stop himself short of a complete meltdown, but teeters still on the edge. His stinging eyes feel engorged and he is light-headed.

“...Is there really no point to life? All ways of rationalisation I have managed to think of point to this speculation. Evolution eventually plateaus, creation ceases to function, all systems reach ultimate equilibrium until they inevitably decay and perish. But then what is the point to suffering through life? What of my efforts, my life’s work??”

At this point, the frequent thunderclaps are no better than white noise to Lucilius. 

“Prove me wrong, damn it!!! Is my ingrained skepticism the problem, that’s why I can’t hear you!? It no longer serves the intended purpose of driving my task of creation anymore anyway so I would eliminate it just for this!”

Electricity buzzes through his body, tearing at him from the inside as Lucilius willfully suppresses his natural urge to rationalize. He _will_ stoop to the ultimate intellectual low, adopt this blind fate that Lucio has taken for granted all his life if it means getting answers.

“So tell me, almighty Creator! Show me but a sliver of your omnipresent, clairvoyant consciousness! Let me see the end of it all, the point of this wretched hellscape you call life, of this poison you are forcing down my throat!!”

The end of Lucilius’ sentence splinters off with deafening thunder. The sky bleaches white and so does the rest of the landscape. 

Lucilius finds himself floating in an empty, colourless void, which curls around his now painless body in the nostalgic manner that the ocean once did. But he is left no time to feel at peace. The white canvas in front of him splits open in an elliptic curve, revealing one giant, golden iris framed by dark scales. Lucilius’ consciousness is sucked into the eye’s amber depths.

\---

His long dream, perhaps as long as time itself, culminates in the bite of damp rock against his cheek and a different sort of aching through his whole body. Despite his miraculously healed wounds, Lucilius somehow feels even more hollow than before. No magnitude of despair is an apt reaction to his brief glimpse into the fate of all creation. His emotional capacities simply could not accommodate, leaving him in cold resignation.

Picking himself up, Lucilius marvels at how light he feels. 

“Heh… So even you cannot prove me wrong. To have your blueprint so easily predicted by your own creation, do you not find your supposedly godly extent pitiful?”

If there is truly no point to anything, if they are all headed for the white void of oblivion at the end of time, what meaning is there in the chains binding him anymore? A plunge into despair has actually gifted him ultimate freedom, after all.

“I see now. Thank you for that pointless little journey. I now have adequate reason to knock away the poison you are pushing to my lips.”

The quill of the golden feather snaps under Lucilius’ heel as it is crushed against the rocky plateau. Light bleeds out of it, dimming completely under his scornful gaze.

\---

Lucilius’ single-mindedness renders all inconsequential details, all intermittent processes leading to his desired ends a blur. Hours after everything transpired, the stench of blood, the annihilation of his own creations by the tip of his unforgiving spear, the conflagrations lapping up every inch of terrain and spitting out ashes in their wake, all unholy destructions under his very hands leave no trace upon his senses.

Only the outcome matters, and being here - on a cliff of black rock where heaven and hell directly intersect - is the exact outcome he set out to achieve. 

“Our Creator asks, o’ irredeemable sinner, that though your heinous transgressions are unworthy of even His boundless mercy, have you any words in their defense?”

Lucio’s voice ringing out from behind him is pitiless and imposing as it is projected to the far ends of the blood-coloured sky, as if his words are meant not only for Lucilius, but a celestial audience far above them and removed from his perception. 

“You’ve just proclaimed it yourself - whatever I have to say makes no difference to my allotted punishment, does it?”

“Then you admit to malicious intent behind the senseless slaughtering?”

“And what if I do?” - Lucilius’ answer is laced with a sardonic chuckle. - “Listen to yourself. Even now you can’t help but self-contradict in the span of a single sentence. Do you honestly think there is such a thing as ‘accidental senseless slaughtering’? Stupidity is indeed a terminal affliction.”

How he wish he could turn around to look at Lucio’s face presumably twisting through that stretch of silence, savour the hatred that must be boring into his back. This is fine, hatred will make this easier for the both of them. 

“As the Arbiter of Dawn, my duty is to eliminate all who endangers the light of this world. As one of such threats, your fate is to be executed by my hands.”

Lucilius is silent, a smile surprisingly void of sinister intent tugging at his lips. 

Golden light washes over the grisly clouds at the beckon of Lucio’s raised blade and they hum with an alien resonance. Lucilius can feel the amber reptilian eye on his back again.

 _He_ is watching, expecting, condemning. This voice of condemnation that Lucilius can barely perceive permeates the skies in a sorrowful song only for Lucio’s ears. A song of mourning, of persuasion and authority. The nostalgic melody of the lullaby which plucked Lucio from the clouds and into existence now reminds him of the gravity of this test of loyalty, guiding his hands. 

Lucilius expects nothing while having already expected it all. 

The blade grazes the skin of his back, but does not plunge into it. The piercing pain radiating from six points parallel to his spine is from cleanly severed wings - pain that he barely registers before trembling hands shove him over the edge. 

Lucilius has expected no less from Lucio’s weakness of heart, yet he feels the stab of betrayal all the same. He really ought to have grown used to betrayal from Lucio by now.

As he begins to plummet, Lucilius revels in the momentary satisfaction of turning around just in time to see Lucio’s calm facade crack under anguish. Streaming from his back, six brilliant wings now bear the full spectrum of light from dusk to dawn.


	12. The most sublime

Lucilius looks strikingly small without the stretch of wings, Lucio realises. Hunched over in a crumpled pile on the ashen ground, he seems to take up even less space that he should. Around them fire roars in its apocalyptic dance. Under its flickering glow, six crimson blooms across Lucilius’ back gleam like oversized slabs of rubies.

Lucio knows dreams offer no answers, but the irrationality inherent of a dreamscape compels him to ask.

“Lucilius… Why?”

Lucilius is still as granite, not even flinching with Lucio’s hand settled on his blood-soaked shoulder. 

Dreams answer to none, Lucio is aware. This must be but another projection of his most agonising regrets. 

“Why was peace not enough? Being loved not enough? What could I have done to save you?”

The shoulder in his hand shivers under its tightened grip, its light tremors spreading to his own voice.

“Why do you scorn affection you deem artificial? What is wrong with artificiality when we both felt it, thrived in it together all the same? Why then, did you go on to arbitrate _life_ by your own hands!?”

Lucilius’ shaking intensifies. 

“...Why am I not good enough?”

His last question sinks under the crackles of flames at the same time the nature of Lucilius’ trembling makes itself known. Chuckles ripple through his body, growing louder into contemptuous laughter which pierces Lucio like a knife. He feels sullied, as if the mere touch of his hand on this hateful creature poisons him while its jeers blacken his heart.

But this nightmare won’t allow him retreat from this locus of toxicity, not when it already has Lucilius’ hand - its pale skin blotchy with accursed silver scales - clasped around his wrist in a deathgrip. Lucilius’ twisted, malignant visage liquifies into a flesh-coloured blur, which begins to swirl to a cacophony of screams.

—-

The nightmare ends, but residual terror clings to Lucio’s bones even in the haven of wakefulness. Today as well, the persistent ringing bores into his ears. The cave remains stale and vapid in its excessive spaciousness, soul-crushing not only from Lucilius’ absence, but also owing to a palpable, deafening _silence_.

To a once beloved lamb stripped of celestial favour, the world - once brimming with song in the voice of its shepherd - now lies disturbingly still. Lucio no longer hears their creator since Lucilius’ fall from grace. Since then, he’s struggled for breath under the weight of nature's indifference. 

“Master…” 

Only the echo of his own voice bounces back at him in reply. 

“So this… is what your world was like.” 

Existence in a world of everlasting indifference, griped with “deafness” which fuels paranoia and renders all threats more menacing by tenfold - this is how Lucilius lived. 

Millennia of coexistence and their empathetic bond could not bring him this single moment’s understanding. Only when plagued with the same curse as his beloved can Lucio truly empathise. And while empathy fans the flames of guilt, it fails to lead him to a place of forgiveness.

“...Though I now understand your pain, I still can’t tolerate what you did.”

The unfeeling world of Lucilius does not leave Lucio simmering in perturbation for long. Unbeknownst to him, the retribution for his disobedience extends to the privacy of his own dreams being stripped away. Dreams are no longer an outlet for his inner turmoils, they have replaced his creator’s direct instructions as prophecy. 

Following the screams and conflagration of his nightmare marking the next point of unrest, Lucio takes to the crumbling sky.

\---

Canon fire proves trivial to a body which regenerates at lightspeed and the skill of battle-worn hands. Lucio can tear away at airborne ships with near reckless abandon, were it not for his concern for the safety of grounded skydwellers. With the power of Creation now imbued in his feathers, even severed limbs return within seconds of being torn off his body.

“Paradise Lost!!”

Several more fleets are charred to fine ashes midair, sprinkling down a rain of golden light. Cheers of skydwellers erupt from the ground at the display of Lucio’s might, but they bring him no peace.

This seems troubling. A similar attack of such fleets, in this same formation, was attempted by the Astrals before and was annihilated by his hands. For a species supposedly driven by logic, repeating the same ineffective strategy makes no sense. Unless… this is merely the prelude to something else more sinister.

His suspicion proves correct. Dotting the horizon are dense swarms of radically different beasts soon to replace the machinery. They slither, fly, crawl and creep, approaching from all altitudes and filling up space of all densities, their appearances just as manifold as their manners of mobility. They advance in a single ghastly battalion of demons, gods and men - all of them organic, united in their possession of a common artificial, perverse source of _life_.

Lucio’s blood runs cold in harrowing realisation. As a medium for prophecy, his dreams are indeed no longer his own. 

The harrowing screams of his nightmare bleeds into reality once more upon the Astral beasts’ descent, while his eyes scan the grisly landscape for one last sign of definitive confirmation. 

He finds it at last: quietly occupying one corner of the sky, observing, commanding the other beasts with an uncanny grace which seems to belong anywhere but these blood-soaked, strife-ridden grounds. In his own spitting image is the proof that his beloved sinner, his irredeemable monster, lives.

\---

The Astral beasts prove to be a brutal force as they sweep the landscape, leaving devastation in their wake and disappearing after an organised raid just as quickly.

Lucio expects no less from creations of Lucilius. Countless times he has tried and failed to pursue them to their base of operation. They either evaporate before his eyes, swiftly withdraw while he is distracted by some decoy, or congregate in such dense swarms around the accompanying ships that it is impossible for him to approach. But at last, his perseverance bears fruit.

Huddled up in one corner of a ship’s storage compartment, Lucio suddenly realises the ambivalence of his motive. What does he hope to achieve by confronting Lucilius? Seek forgiveness from their creator by finishing the task he was delegated, finally eliminating this seed of evil? Try to bring Lucilius back and somehow restore their relationship to the way it was? Or has Lucio’s heart simply been yearning for a fruitless reunion? 

With the questions churning away in his head, it is quite the miracle that Lucio’s divided focus manages to keep him undetected as he slinks through the ship’s bowels. Their empathetic bond has long been severed, but the same dull ache in his bones that led him to boarding this particular ship convinces Lucio of Lucilius’ nearby presence.

His hunch was right. The Lucilius’ familiar silhouette falls on a curtained window of what must be the ship’s innermost chamber. Heat floods Lucio’s chest: a swirling, volatile mixture of relief, sadness, anger and longing. For some time, concealing his presence completely slips his mind as he stands dumbfounded, drinking in each sway of the pacing Lucilius’ robes. 

But overwhelmed as he is, the other, unwelcomed presence in the shadows does not escape Lucio’s awareness. His blade leaves its scabbard, gleaming tip aimed for the unseen throat in an instance.

“Woah, take it easy! I’m not here to spill blood.”

Lucio can’t quite decide which commands more of his attention: the creature’s three imposing pairs of black, leathery wings or its blood-coloured eyes puncturing the shadows. He doesn’t understand how, but as it steps into an illuminated patch of withering daylight, Lucio can immediately tell that the bewitching, perverse allure it possesses is an extension of _him_. 

That realisation alone prompts Lucio to lower is sword.

“...You are another one of his creations.”

“Indeed. And you must be ‘the original’.” - A deathly pale hand swats the length of steel away with near mocking tenderness. - “Damn, you can really emote, huh. Not implying that dear Cilius’ handiwork is of inferior quality, of course, but you are certainly… a whole lot more eye-catching, I’d say.”

It feels disgusting, the way the creature scoots closer to him, its nefarious red eyes boring into him in inquisitive, lustful scrutiny. But neither the place nor time is appropriate for forceful retaliation, to Lucio’s chagrin. The best he could do in protest is give the creature the dirtiest of looks. It proves ineffective. 

“Mmm, that crease between your brows deepens any more and I might just lose myself. Scary how much your angry face looks like his default expression. Just exquisite.”

Feeling quite repulsed already, Lucio fights the lump of acid climbing up his throat to reply.

“...You spoke of Lucilius’ ‘handiwork’. Any chance that was in reference to the commander of the Astral beasts?”

“Ah, so you’ve noticed Lucifer. Yes, Cilius’ masterpiece, his sweet little lapdog who can do no wrong….”

Despite the creature’s flippant attitude, Lucio is aware he is being observed with acute intent. It’s preying on his reactions, behaviour moulding to his responses like a formless, insidious shadow to best pry out of him what it deems entertaining to hear. When Lucio’s expression remains frigid, the demon’s lips pull into a smirk as it resumes with prodding.

“...He’s very unlike you, I suppose. I’d dare say Lucifer is what poor ol’ Cilius wished you could’ve been? Quiet, smart, _loyal_. A true companion capable of keeping up with his intellectual pursuits and worthy of his trust.”

Lucio’s teeth and fists are clenched as much as he tries to bar the comparisons from affecting his emotions. The demon’s red eyes bore straight through facade, however, sharp white teeth peeking out behind pale lips stretched into a devious grin.

“What would you be to him, then?” - Lucio offers his best topical diversion.

“Who, me? If Lucifer is everything you could be, guess I am everything that you _aren’t_. Apparently, some part of him calls for my existence. Some part that you wouldn’t know of, or approve of, perhaps.”

The beast has clearly sensed his intention. Despite Lucio’s attempt to steer the conversation away from himself, he is back to being subjected to accusatory remarks within two sentences. The worst part is the accusations are not baseless. Far more than the derision, the truth behind the creature’s words stings like salt on open an open wound.

“What would you know about him?” - Lucio struggles to keep the passion out of his voice.

“More than you’re willing to give me or Cilius himself credit for. After all, didn’t you two have that messy heck of fallout because you couldn’t handle all of Cilius, accept every part of him for who he is?”

The beast clicks its tongue in faux regret, black wings quivering as it suppresses a chuckle.

“Well rest assured, that’s what Lucifer and I were made for. We take good care of him, indulge his every need - physical or intellectual, and escort him on his way to the top. He’s happy as can be among like-minded people who do appreciate his gift.”

But he, too, appreciated Lucilius’ gift. There was a time when he regarded his beloved’s creations with awe. This only stopped being the case when their conception began to violate the fundamental laws of their world and endangered existing lifeforms. Weak-hearted as he may be, Lucio still knows where his loyalty must lie. 

It is unclear whether the beast could hear his thoughts, but its eyes seem to narrow with judgment.

“We’re not all that different, pretty boy. Like you, I only have his best interest in mind… or at least, I hope that you do. There’s need for us to be enemies.”

“I work in the interest of all that is good and innocent in this world. That alone puts us at a direct dichotomy.” - Cautiously, Lucio usheaths one of his blades the moment he notices Lucilius’ silhouette has disappeared from the behind the curtains. - “Give me one good reason not to destroy you right here, right now, o’ creature of evil.”

The beast laughs with defiance. Lucio dreads seeing on its face the outline of Lucilius’ rebellious sneer - his final visage, seared onto his corneas upon their farewell.

“Oh man, you really have a knack for theatrics, dontcha? I know you won’t, though, because that’s not what you’re here for.”

Quick as a snake, a pale fingers shoots for Lucio’s face and holds his lips shut.

“Sshhh, convince yourself about coming here to ‘weed out the seed of evil at its roots’ or whatever all you want. It’s no secret that bleeding heart of yours will never allow you to end his life. In terms of that, I guess Lucifer has you beat.”

“What are you-”

“Yeah, whatever could I be implying, I wonder?” - The creature hums as his finger drags a line up Lucio’s jaw, its icy skin tickling sensitive nerve endings. - “You’ll know eventually. But for now, shall we address your need to check up on him? I can and will be _ecstatic_ to help you with that.”

His heart skips in his chest. Something compels him to remain deathly still even as cold lips graze his earlobe, like a rabbit with a snake’s tail coiled around its neck. Protests wilt in his throat, drowned out by nausea.

“It’s alright, no need to keep up that dignified front before me. I am ally to all of your most fervent, forbidden desires.” - Each breathy syllable enters Lucio’s ear laced with a low groan. - “Besides, just spying on your ex doesn’t exactly aid the spread of evil or anything, y’know.”

“...I may not bring harm to him, but neither will I collude with the likes of you.”

“Fine, fine. Do it your way, then.” 

The demon’s eyes glow a piercing red as it abruptly puts distance between them, its face taking on a sudden, uncharacteristic gravity.

“Just don’t let me catch you so much as breaking a single hair on his precious head, you spineless vermin.” 

Lucio feels no fear, but the flood of hatred which comes spilling out of the beast’s eyes and saturating its every word takes him by surprise. His jaw drops open, retaliation just about to roll of his tongue when the staccato of approaching footsteps ring out from one end of the hall. 

In an instance, the hostility washes off the beast’s features, replaced by a teasing grin.

“That’s all~. Run along, now, before security arrives. You may be able to handle armies out on the battlefield, but that’s no match for the awkwardness of having to confront a former lover with whom you aren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore, is it?”

Lucio scans the curtains one last time in search of Lucilius’ shadow and turns to flee in the opposite direction of the security guards when he doesn’t find it, his heart heavier than when he came. The beast’s parting words momentarily halts his steps.

“Actually, not that I particularly care, but here’s a touching little fun fact to help motivate you in persisting with this oh so entertaining endeavour…” - It follows him for a few paces, humming. - “Every dimwit in this place assumes that Cilius merely indulged his narcissistic streak in making his magnum opus superficially identical to himself. While that may be true to some extent, I’m quite convinced that he simply took inspiration for his ultimate work of art from the most beautiful, sublime creation in existence that he knows of.”


	13. Untainted vibrance

That he was an extension of Lucilius’ great mind, Lucifer learned the moment he bid farewell the bowels of his seraphim cradle. All natural extensions of a lifeform’s brain - arms, legs, eyes, nose, and mouth - work to nourish it. Every one of their actions is purposeful, all that they feel is preordained to further some end determined by the brain, be it self-preservation or other, more complex calculations.

He was the same, Lucilius had said. Like limbs or the senses to the brain, Lucifer should require no understanding of his master’s motives to function as he should. It was out of his league to question, and any semblance of emotions he felt was illusory. ‘Fondness’ of something was his body’s demand for nourishment or stimulation, ‘displeasure’ denoted a presence of threats, ‘sadness’ or ‘boredom’ - a lack of productive tasks at hand.

None of Lucifer’s feelings were his own, and as a fledgling, he was content. There was security in looking up at the pinnacle of intellectual prowess, pleasure in being in its closest proximity (“friends”, as Lucilius had called their connection), and excitement in helping to build it up even higher. There was solace in Lucilius’ endeared shadow, and his young heart once burned with the determination to outgrow it, only so that he could shield it from all harm.

And yet, once Lucifer did grow beyond the stretch of Lucilius’ shadow, his emotional capacity and curiosity had silently grown with him. He could never help but wonder the true focal point of Lucilius’ weary eyes in moments when he seemed lost between delirium and sobriety. There was a pained tenderness in the way Lucilius’ gaze lingered on his face, cupped his cheek with a care so alien to the practiced, mechanical indifference with which he would usually scrutinise his creations. All the while, paradoxically, dark eyes bore right through Lucifer as if he had been no better than cellophane. 

Eerie as the treatment was, Lucifer trained himself to think of it as another one of Lucilius’ many quirks. A much easier mindset to adopt, he learned, than acknowledging the existence of a part of Lucilius, some dark remnant of his past perhaps, so far removed from himself. But such concerns soon turned hypocritical. 

Not only did Sandalphon’s birth mark Lucifer’s outgrowing his identity as Lucilius’ extension, it ushered in the most ardent, volatile phase of his sentimentality. Lucilius’ prophetic warning rung true: emotions and attachment were indeed, the breeding grounds of vice. Sandalphon fled from their slice of paradise with Lucifer’s peace in tow and he was powerless to stop it. Adding insult to injury, his softened heart was not allowed enough time to desensitise before the next tragedy ensued. 

Lucifer still can’t quite tell whether the smile in Lucilius’ eyes as he bled out was really present, or was a mere false memory concocted by his subconscious to mitigate the sting of guilt. 

There wasn’t supposed to be any guilt. Unlike with Sandalphon, he dealt with Lucilius exactly as his design dictated, by prioritising the safety of the skies over all else. And yet, Lucilius’ expression of twisted contentment haunted him all the same. With the last flickers of life in his eyes, the man stared right through him again, throwing a look of triumph and satisfaction at some ominous shadow which exists only in his delusions. 

Lucilius was extraordinary to his very last breath - somehow swelling with life as he laid dying. His whole existence had led up to this outcome, his single fervent wish was answered. Dying under Lucifer’s hands was the finale of his grand design. 

He recalled Lucilius voicelessly mouthing final words: how Lucifer was indeed, different, that he was truly his ultimate creation, the _superior one_. But Lucifer had neither mind nor stomach to care, thus brushing the memory off as his own mind’s fabrication. He was too busy processing whether slaughtering his only friend or learning he’d been nothing more than a tool to said friend’s schemes stung worse. 

He isn’t physically incapable of crying. His database retains a vague memory of Sandalphon once innocently complimenting his smile, but Lucifer’s design has deemed the emotional shedding of tears too frivolous for inclusion. As he lead the funeral procession, Lucifer wondered if it would feel less bad if he could cry. 

Would this violent discomfort cease if he were allowed to mourn? Is his understanding of the function of mourning even correct, or is it merely a reflection of his own hopes? 

Lucilius is no longer there to answer any of Lucifer’s questions. From now on, without his creator or Sandalphon, he is truly on his own. A turbulent vortex swirls ceaselessly under his steely facade of composure, raging on even as they all stand to leave Lucilius’ final resting place. 

If emotional turmoil can be so great as to manifest in physical pain - the stabbing in his palms - as Lucifer currently suffers, perhaps it can trick the visual faculty as well. In between blinks, Lucifer sees himself hunched in grief over Lucilius’ grave. But of course, it must only be an illusion.

\---

Lucio slips through the underbrush. The path carved out specifically for that place has long been reclaimed by nature, blending seamlessly into the rest of the verdure. The Astrals, to his knowledge, were never much for spending time or energy on their dead. This apathy extended to even the monuments meant to immortalise the passing’s legacy.

Dense greenery thins out, giving the eyes power to wander. A lonesome headstone stands amidst wind and light, the slab of mountain behind it already eroded off to form a precipice overlooking boundless woodlands. 

Lucio’s visits spare the landmark from creeping vines, moss and weeds. Betraying the headstone’s polished state, however, its epitaph has long faded from lack of upkeep, leaving the elements little to do to completely grind it out of existence. 

Lucio is content with this. A plain rock is better than anything Lucilius could have been remembered for during his time among the Astrals. 

Settling down the bouquet of pink flowers, as always, he begins his one-sided conversation.

“Hey. I’m sorry for not dropping by for some weeks now. It’s been hectic at the ship, you see. Skydweller holidays zip by one after the other, and you lose yourself in preparation for each.”

Lucio imagines Lucilius clicking his tongue in disinterest and chuckles at the mental image. Realising that there is much to share concerning his extended absence, Lucio sits down, making himself comfortable in front of the headstone.

“You might be displeased to hear that I don’t find it all unpleasant. But life as it is for now does give me peace. We travel for most of our waking hours. It’s quite strange to visit more lands by airship than I ever did by our own wings. It’s as if the skies stretch wider, depending on how you choose to traverse them.”

The lattice of shadows draped over Lucilius’ grave and Lucio’s body sways. Lucio shifts, using himself to shield the bouquet’s delicate pink petals from the wind’s clutches.

“I’m sure you’re sick of hearing me say this, but this world is truly a beautiful place. The natural landscapes break apart, rebuild and remodel themselves ceaselessly, each new spectacle more marvelous than the last. There is also beauty to be found in the lives of people. Countless times, I’ve been awestruck by the artistry, craftsmanship and sense of community among the cultures we encountered. There is astounding kindness in the hearts of mortals, kindness that…”

His hands ball into fists, tightening until colour drains from their knuckles. Lucio swallows hard.

“Kindness that you never knew, that I wish you could’ve known.”

A pause ensues, graciously filled by the soothing rustles of foliage. Lucio takes a moment to collect himself. 

“...But I’ve finally learned that… Even while free from the clinging shadows of warfare, even with the most malicious of vices long gone, this world is still gripe with cruelty. Within the same hearts that dwell so much warmth, envy, hatred, anger can flare up in the blink of an eye. Brothers may turn against brothers over the superfluous. The weak gather to abuse the weakest among them. This world bears the potential to be exceedingly repugnant. And yet…”

A heavy, crystalline drop lands on the flowers. Then comes another. But the sky above his head is still a spotless, azure dome.

“...And yet I regret my zealousness in trying to shield you from it all. You had the right to bear witness to every part of this world: even the ugliest, the most foolish, the most nonsensical. Perhaps then, you would’ve been convinced that despite everything, beauty truly persevered without end. No amount of wickedness can ever change that.”

The scenery before him is now a blur, only a single strand of gold unspooled across the far horizon stands out. The light of day is fading. Dusk stains part of the sky violet - the same hue Lucilius’ wings once bore.

“Perhaps if you had been allowed to live through it all yourself, we would have finally seen eye-to-eye. Or perhaps… it wouldn’t have changed anything. After all, we were both hopelessly headstrong in our own ways. It is but a futile wish of mine to right a wrong I did unto you.” 

As the last sunbeams flicker out, Lucio still does not find the motivation to leave. 

“Maybe in a different world, of a different era, when neither of us are bound by duties nor ideals, we will find it within our hearts to forgive each other.”

It won’t hurt to stay a little longer, give in to this sudden bout of grogginess momentarily, he thinks. Six light-bound wings unfurl, encircling Lucio and Lucilius’ headstone. Their weight rests on the cool slab. Lucio muses on how it feels like a few dozens centuries have lifted off his shoulders. 

Briefly, he wishes this could also be his own final resting ground.

“Goodnight, Lucilius.”

The bouquet of lotuses stirs under his wing’s dawn-kissed glow. Just as how Lucilius cloaked himself in darkness, in Lucio’s eyes, the muddy swamps that were the blossoms’ dwelling place could hardly conceal their vibrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as this story - which takes place in their current lifetime - is concerned, it is already over. Proceeding will not add more to it. But if you feel this to be inadequate closure, please feel free to read on.


	14. Coda: In that shining era...

_...where you are smiling even now..._

.

.

He has sat exactly where he fell for almost five minutes now, fingers still curled around one end of an empty leash. Scattered groceries surround him in a circle of ruined produce - the gooey inside of a burst egg carton over there, a bleeding bottle of milk here, some bruised lettuce and tomatoes a little further away,... 

He won’t cry. Big boys at the grand old age of seven don’t cry. His scraped and bleeding knees may sting a few times worse than his last bee-sting, but he is just a little dazed, that’s all. Dazed, and mightily disappointed with himself for failing his first errand ever. What would his parents say? He was supposed to be their hero, the saviour of neglected housework owing to their busy schedules. 

But perhaps it doesn’t matter now. There is as much point in trying to gather unusable groceries as there is in crying, retrieving their lost puppy should be paramount. 

Just as he is about to pick himself off the ground, the boy is caught off guard by mischievous giggles coming from a few paces away. Looking up, his heart momentarily stops in his chest.

He has heard a seven year old’s fair share of urban legends, one of those being of the doppelganger - an exact replica of someone who tries to steal their identity and murders them, if they are unfortunate enough to meet it in their lifetime. If so, he must be staring at his own doom in the eye as it approaches, cradling his puppy and still giggling.

“...B-begone!! Doppelganger! Force of evil!”

The doppelganger seems simultaneously annoyed, bewildered and amused with having a cob of corn wildly hurled at it. 

“Is this how you repay someone’s kindness? Guess you won’t be needing this dog, then.”

“W-wait! No! Please!!” - In sheer panic, he takes hold of the doppelganger’s shirt hem just as it turns to leave. - “Please don’t hurt Lailah! You… you can take my life if you wish but I beg you, don’t harm her…”

His copy bursts out laughing. Perplexingly, despite his mounting fear he doesn’t find the sound of it at all unpleasant.

“What sort of an idiot does one have to be to still believe in doppelgangers?”

“But…! We look-”

“Look closer, dimwit.”

The ‘doppelganger’ is right. As his fear dissipates, closer inspection reveals that their eye colours are in fact, not the same. Mom and dad have always called his eyes little coins carved out of the summer sky. The boy before him, however, has deep indigo, almost violet-hued irises. 

They are different, after all. And such difference brings him tremendous relief. 

“You’re right…! You aren’t my doppelganger…”

“Of course I’m right.” - The other boy huffs, kneeling to place Lailah back in his arms.

Maybe they have been dealt a whimsical hand by fate. Or maybe an inconceivable coincidence that has brought them together - complete strangers bearing striking superficial resemblance. But the boy can feel in his bones that something, some extraordinary chapter of his young life, has just begun. The feeling blooms in his chest in surges of heat that his vocabulary is not yet able to describe.

“Thanks for helping me. What’s your name?”

“Me? I’m-”

.

.

_...without resentment nor fear of death, let’s meet there at all costs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been one wild, labour-intensive and emotionally punishing ride. My heartfelt thanks to those who have stuck with the story so far, I really, really do appreciate it. Wmtsb3 might render all of this irrelevant in a few days, but I do nurture the hope that some will find this story worthy of revisits regardless of what is to come. Thanks again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I just bs-ed a thing out of cygames' signature fiasco. Most likely will drag on way longer than it should, again, since that seems to be a pattern for me. I might as well get this story out there before wmtsb3 smacks us all in the face.
> 
> My twitter @vanishingapples for yelling purposes :]]


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